


His King

by getoffmysheets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF John, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Silver Fox Lestrade, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 35,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3244721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/getoffmysheets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soul mate AU fic.</p><p>In which Sherlock gives up just a little too early, and Mycroft discovers that the best things in life are worth waiting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes is eight years old and stares into the mirror with wide-eyed wonder at the mark that had newly finished forming on the crest of his shoulder. It is deep red and slightly shiny, like a pool of freshly drying blood, vivid against the pale skin. Eight is a little young - though not terribly unusual - for a Crowning mark, but he hadn't expected it to come in so soon. His big brother has only got his two years ago. But there it is, a bold adornment overlying the muscle and bone. Hands pressed to the shining glass in the darkened room, he whispers "My, it's here! Come look, My!"

Mycroft Holmes is fifteen years old, a tall, pudgy, and pale young man who responds with a tenderness most wouldn't credit him in the face of his little brother's excitement. He stands behind him, laying a hand on his unmarked left shoulder and peers into the mirror with him.

The blood-red mark is rounded, like all Crowning marks. At its center is a lion rampant, claws extended and jaws outstretched, the heraldic symbol of warriors and kings. Around it like a circular stamp, the words that describe him, describe the soul of the person who is matched to him.

" _Corona Gloriae,_ " Mycroft says gravely. "'Crowned With Glory. That's quite impressive, little brother."

"It's beautiful," Sherlock says solemnly. "It's perfect. I'm going to find them, My. I know I will."

Mycroft sighs and runs a gentle hand through his brother's dark curls, over the soft, rounded line of his adolescent jaw. He can't bear to tell him that the likelihood of Sherlock finding his soulmate is very, very small. Most people - the bloody goldfish - will settle for the first acceptable partner and stay with them, despite knowing that their Crowning marks do not match, despite knowing that they are depriving not just themselves but their unknown matches of their true soulmates. He can't bear to tell Sherlock this, because Sherlock is too smart for an eight year old and bullied and lonely and more sensitive than Mycroft. He craves, hungrily and desperately, for someone who will love him as he is, without the painful names of freak, psycho, and monster.

Sherlock is still speaking, staring obsessively into the mirror. "My Crowned will be magnificent."

"What makes you think that?" Mycroft asks, amused. 

Though the mark's meaning also refers to himself, Sherlock speaks without awareness of conceit. "Anyone can be kind or clever or patient," he tells his brother. "But it must take someone truly extraordinary to be  _glorious._ " 

"I can't disagree," Mycroft says softly, peering down into that small, earnest, beloved face. Because he knows that somewhere, someone will have a crest tattooed on their body, proclaiming that their mate will be wreathed in glory, and that it will refer to the little boy in front of him. There is no way this eager, hopeful, worshipful creature is not meant for the highest praises.

"I want to see it, My," Sherlock demands, tugging at his sleeve. "Show me again, I want to see!"

"You've seen it a thousand times, Sherlock," he huffs with a small, uncomfortable laugh. But he still unbuttons his cuff and lifts his shirt sleeve, his Crowning mark showing iron and silver just below the crook of his elbow.

The wolf grins back at Sherlock, showing each and every one of its long teeth. A smile, or snarl, it would be hard to tell. The eyes are bright and fierce, the yellow nearly glowing in the darkness. " _Victoria Coronatur._ Crowned With Victory," Sherlock whispers, brushing lightly over the picture. "You'll find yours, too."

"We'll see," Mycroft sighs, because he is not expecting to find his soulmate, and has no intention of looking. He has little time or interest for goldfish.

Sherlock lays awake at night in his childhood, trying to guess at what his Crowning mate will be like. He feels a jolt go through the crest at his shoulder some nights, like a small electric shock current running through him with the Crowning mark at its center. He feels certain this means that his match will find him.

Sherlock grows up and goes to university at Cambridge, utterly certain that he will find the bearer of his Glory. Mycroft has grown weak and ugly in his brother's eyes by then and his warnings not to get his hopes too high go unheard.

Within the first month of classes, Sherlock knows he will not be finding his soulmate here. These people are small, useless, cruel, and petty.

There is nothing glorious about them. 

He befriends - loose interpretation of the word - a young man named Victor Trevor, who also happens to be the local dealer on campus. Victor's merchandise of choice is cocaine. It takes Sherlock six months to get tired of Victor. It takes him six years to get tired of cocaine.

Cocaine makes his thoughts clearer and sweeter, makes the part of him that longs for someone to love forget that he has misplaced something dear to him, something he needs but cannot find. 

A young detective by the name of Gregory Lestrade finds Sherlock passed out on a doorstep in Islington and when he doesn't respond to his efforts to get him conscious, he spends seventeen straight minutes performing CPR on Sherlock while trying to stop him from going into cardiac failure.

Lestrade finds Sherlock something to do, and Sherlock finds the willpower not to resort back to cocaine. 

Without the drugs clouding over him, Sherlock realizes that the shockwaves that have been running through him since he was a child have increased by nearly triple. Once, sometimes twice a week, the jolt passes through him, a shock paddle lightly touching his skin.

This strange, phantom sensation is really the only time that his Crowning mate ever enters his thoughts. The ever-present disappointment, the longing, were dangerous distractions and Sherlock did not allow himself to indulge in them any longer. The Yarders whisper that he doesn't have a Crowning mark - after all, how could someone who doesn't have a soul have a soulmate? - and Sherlock is careful to keep his shoulder covered at all times, even when the weather doesn't dictate covering as thorough as his.

Weeks after his twenty-ninth birthday, Sherlock finds himself sitting up abruptly onto the couch, jerking awake from a sleep he cannot remember falling into. Though he does not remember any of the details of it, he is gravely certain that he was having a nightmare - one which culminated in the biggest shock of all through his mark and a split-second of blinding agony. With a wrenching cry, Sherlock stumbles to the bathroom mirror, yanking off his clothes as quickly as his shaking hands can manage.

When one Crowned dies, their mate's mark will fade, becoming nothing but a raised, flesh-colored afterimage in the skin. While he doesn't allow himself to indulge in dwelling on his soulmate's identity anymore, the idea that they may have died apart from him is more than he can stand, and he knows that if he finds white skin, not even Lestrade's cases and Mycroft's threats and pleas will stop him going right back to the oblivion of cocaine. He can silently accept not finding them, swallow his loneliness and disappointment down, but losing them entirely? No, he will not quietly accept that.

He sags against the bathroom sink in sheer relief at seeing the crimson lion still roaring bright over the muscles of his shoulder. One hand supports his weight on the porcelain and the other lifts to massage the mark thoughtfully. Somewhere in the world, there is someone worthy of Glory, and they are either in danger, or experiencing intense pain.

John Watson is twelve years old when his mark appears, while he is sitting in his desk during geography. It is a sudden spreading warmth over the center of his body, just below his navel.

He spends the lunch period in the toilets, staring at his stomach in the mirror, brushing his finger at the mark as if uncertain that it will stay. It does. No matter how much he strokes and rubs at it, the Crowning stamp stays right where it appeared.

When he goes home, he shows his mother, who is already blurry-eyed from the bottle of gin sitting above the kitchen sink. She examines it, with John standing bashfully on the linoleum, his jumper pulled up to his chin. "Glory," she snorts, missing the hurt expression that crosses her young son's face. "Crowned by glory."

"I think it's pretty," John mutters, turning red to the tips of his ears. In the center of the circle formed by the Crowning motto, is a hexagonal pattern that reminds John of lace, intricate and beautiful. 

"Don't like it's color. It looks like a bruise," Maggie Watson mumbles, grabbing the bottle to take a quick swig before taking potatoes from the cabinet and a peeler from the drawer. "Probably there's somethin' that's wrong with 'er. Doesn't have a good life, like."

This time, even Maggie cannot miss the stricken look on John's face and she realizes her mistake too late. After all, her boy is a lot of things, but he ain't thick. "It could be nothing," she says quickly, gazing frantically at her daughter for assistance. "Isn't that right, Harry?"

"Maybe blue is just their favorite color," Harry suggests, but it's not convincing and she knows that John thinks so too.

Because the mark doesn't look blue, and they both know it. Their mother is right - the mark is a vivid purple-blue, like a big bruise resting across his abdomen. And he discovers as the days go past that sometimes, it feels like one, too. 

John will be playing football with the other boys in his year, or working on his maths, or watching telly on the sofa, and the crest below his navel will ache and throb and John will curl up or press his hand into his stomach, feeling like he has been sucker-punched in the gut. And in bed at night, he caresses the tattoo and gets into the admittedly strange habit of speaking to the mate who isn't there.

"You need me, don't you?" he murmurs, fingers pressed to his aching stomach. "You're hurt and you need me. I'm here. I'm right here, love. I promise, I will find you, and I'll take care of you."

John goes to medical school, and his gut still hurts at night. He is very popular with women, but none of them are glorious and while he is nice to them, he never stays with any of them long and gets very good at shagging without taking his clothes off. It isn't that he doesn't like other people seeing it - despite what his mother said, he still finds his Crowning crest beautiful - it's just that...it doesn't belong to them. They don't have a right to see and touch a part of him that already belongs to someone else. In the mean time, he learns every trick in the sexual book, waiting for the time he can use all his skills to please his most beloved friend.

He is sent to Afghanistan, paying the debt for his medical school fees, and John is a very good soldier. He stays in the army because it gives him a thrill, a purpose, and the chance to meet greater and greater numbers of other human beings. But they are none of them the right human being.

Fifteen months into his first enlistment, the pain in John's stomach is a constant, low-level throb and the men in his unit quickly learn not to say anything about the fact that when Watson goes to bed, he rests his palm over his belly and whispers comfort to a person who is not there. Most of them understand - they have their own stories about phantom sensations or midnight pains. 

They call him 'Three Continents Watson' because he can pull all the girls he wants, but he still wanders, and wanders, and wanders. And they are beautiful, pretty, nice, kind, vivacious, witty. But none are glorious.

John is thirty-four years old and has been serving for seven years when the sniper shoots him through the left shoulder and he goes down in the sands of Kandahar. 

When he returns to London, he contemplates the gun in his desk drawer, but his stomach still aches fiercely. The person waiting on the other side of his tattoo still needs him. So he leaves the gun in the drawer and tolerates - badly - the cane and the honorable discharge and the lifeless little bedsit.

And then he walks into a laboratory at St Bart's and a pair of the most intense eyes he's ever seen flick over him. A deep voice, velvet smooth and flowing over his skin like a caress, drawls "Afghanistan or Iraq?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah. You guys. Dayum. 
> 
> This was supposed to be a quick little oneshot I did on my phone while on breaks at work or riding the bus, but this fic took over my brain hardcore, and the reception has been amazing. Thank you guys so much!

When he was a boy after first receiving his Crowning mark, John had looked up 'glory' in the dictionary. The way he had it figured, as long as he had to start looking he ought to know what it was that he was looking  _for_ ; 

Most of what he'd read back then has faded from his memory, but he did remember pieces of the definition. Glory: worthy of praise or renown. An object of great beauty or splendor. 

Watching Sherlock whirl through a mental ballet of logic and deductions, John is not only dumbstruck, he feels the words marked into his flesh like a physical weight and cannot think of a person who more embodies the letters etched into his skin. And the words fall from his lips unbidden "That's fantastic!"

Those quicksilver eyes, bright and luminous and burning through him, turn on him. Sherlock sounds amused and slightly startled himself as he says "Do you know you do that out loud?"

Abashed, John says "Sorry. I'll shut up."

"No, it's...fine." Another flick of the pale eyes, and like his voice, it's almost a physical presence, and bloody hell, John can't even  _breathe._

 _It's him. It has to be him._ John no longer cares that his normal sexual preference is women or that they met yesterday or that Sherlock is, at least partially, an utter lunatic. He is a creature of brilliant incandescence and John needs to be near him like he desperately needs to take a breath. 

~

Sherlock knows where John has gone because Mycroft is an overprotective arse who runs the British government almost single-handedly. He also knows what Mycroft's likely offer will be. Sherlock finds himself, for the first time in a long time, unsure. He doesn't know what John's reaction to an offer of bribery will be and he doesn't know which he hopes for more - acceptance, or denial.

Denying his brother information would mean that John is just that much more honorable, just that much more loyal and the idea of that honor, that loyalty, being gifted to him makes his stomach flutter wildly.

Accepting his brother's offer would mean that Sherlock can distance himself from this man, who looks at him with an almost...hunger and who praises and compliments him with an unconsciousness that borders on a reflexive action.

_You can have your doctor back. - MH_

It kills him to have to ask, but he needs to know, he can't help himself, and even though his wording is snide, he knows Mycroft will undoubtably be able to read the insecurities that live beneath it.  _How did he take meeting the Queen? - SH_

_Fearless. The man is utterly fearless. If it weren't for that unfortunate habit of somatisizing his emotional agonies, I would strongly consider recruiting him for MI6. - MH_

_Did he break your nose? Now I'm sorry I wasn't there to see it. - SH_

_Nothing so overt, he was surprisingly subtle. He taunted me and blatantly flirted with Anthea in the car. The only moment he looked anything but calm was when I tried to touch him. He didn't care for that. - MH_

_You tried to touch him? Why? - SH_

Sherlock tells himself that he is not jealous, but it feels like a lie.

_The tremor in his left hand. I demonstrated to him that while he is under pressure, the tremor vanishes. He clearly knew that I was a man of some power, and his guard was up the whole time, but his hand was perfectly still throughout our entire interaction. - MH_

Fearless. Sherlock's fingers danced over the armrest of his chair as he considered the word, insides glowing. Even Mycroft thought that his John was fearless.

Wait...his John? No...no, Sherlock had already decided that emotion and human interaction were not his area of expertise, not his domain. 

But then why did every 'amazing', every 'fantastic', each 'extraordinary' make him feel like he could light up the entire city of London? 

~

In Angelo's, John decided that he could not take anymore. Damn his leg, to hell with the giant bullet wound across his left shoulder, and fuck the shake in his hand. While his sexual experiences were widely varied, his dating experiences were limited to women. He did not think there was too much of a difference between the genders when it came to certain signals, though.

And for the longest time, Sherlock's signals had been transmitting a message that made his trousers uncomfortably tight. The nearly tangible slide of that dark honey voice, the shy little smiles and boyish uncertain grins when John complimented him, those glowing, heated eyes, his stare always lingering just a little too long. They were speaking a language John knew how to translate and he felt like the luckiest man on earth.

And he already knew that Sherlock possessed no Crowning mate. Which was why he was so startled when his careful questions produced a long, hard stare. And Sherlock, with that cautious, strangely stilted expression "While I am flattered by your interest...I'm not really looking for..."

Had he really misread his body language that badly? "You don't want to find your Crown?"

A flicker of...something flashed over Sherlock's face. "Not really my area," he repeated flatly. 

Not his...? Donovan had warned him at the crime scene earlier that Sherlock was a psychopath, without a Crowning mark to show his soul, but he certainly hadn't believed her then. Oh.

OH.

Perhaps...perhaps Sherlock's Crown had died. It was tragic, but not very terribly uncommon. That would certainly explain his lack of interest in intimate relationships. 

It was strange and more than a little disappointing, though.

John had never met anyone, male or female, who body language had so clearly said  _I'm yours. Take me now. Please, I'm aching for you._

Beneath his cardigan, John's stomach throbs with pain and the hand not holding his fork automatically moves to the spot, presses into the wool to quell the ache.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue you recognize is courtesy of BBC and the writers of Sherlock.

"Why have I got this blanket?" Sherlock demands, bemused, and then frowns. "They keep putting this blanket on me!"

"It's for shock," Lestrade sighs, scratching at the base of his neck.

While he's never actually seen it, Sherlock deduced long ago that it is where his Crowning mark is located. He scratches at it often and on rare occasions, will also flick his head to the left, as though listening for someone who isn't there. Sherlock tries not to bother the man too much when he does it - something about the stillness in his form during those occurrences make him vaguely...uneasy, though he would be hard pressed for a logical reason why. "I'm not in shock," he says petulantly.

"Yeah, well some of the guys wanna take photographs," he says, loosing patience.

"The shooter," he insists. "No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here. Nothing to go on," Lestrade says blandly.

Sherlock raises a brow and stares. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"Alright, gimme," he says indulgently.

It's funny, honestly. Sherlock stands abruptly, his body at attention like a soldier, eyes darting around, mouth moving a mile a minute. "The bullet they dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance with that kind of weapon? That's a crack shot you're looking for - but not just a marksman," he says, more to himself than to Lestrade. "A fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service..." Sherlock's eyes drift, drawn to John's form as though magnetized, where the man stands, calm and unruffled behind the police tape. "...nerves of steel..."

Their eyes meet across the distance and Sherlock trails off, lips parted. He didn't-he couldn't-there was no way-but John turns away, just a little too innocent. Oh. God. He did, though, didn't he? They've known each other hardly more than a day and John just shot and killed a man to save his life. His heart is beating too hard and too fast for someone standing still. "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

Lestrade looks startled. "Sorry?"

"Ignore all that," he persists, walking away, drawn to John again. "It's the...er, shock."

"Where are you going?" Lestrade asks, concerned.

"I just need to talk about the...rent," Sherlock replies, still walking away.

"But I've still got questions for you!"

"And I just caught you a serial killer!" Sherlock snaps, then calms. "More or less."

"Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go," and Lestrade looks behind him, where John is waiting. Sherlock is quite certain that he has guessed who shot the cab driver-cum-serial killer, because while Lestrade is an idiot, nearly everyone is, and he is not a complete moron nor is he an utter fool. And his instincts, as Sherlock himself has discovered, are better than most. But he lets him go anyway.

John blinks at him. "Sergeant Donovan just been explaining everything. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

Sherlock has never wanted to kiss another person - well, no, he has, but purely for the satisfaction of his curiosity, the empirical data of the experience. He's never wanted to kiss anyone purely for the sake of it. He finds, looking down into John's dark eyes, that this is no longer true and his voice is hushed, but not just because of the police still wandering over the area. "Good shot."

"Yes, it must have been through that window," John agrees, looking guiltier by the second.

"Well, you'd know," he says slyly. He straightens. "Need to get the powder burns off your hands. I doubt you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." 

When John clears his throat and looks at the officers standing about nervously, Sherlock adds "Are you all right? You have just killed a man."

"Yes, I...that's true." He smiles blandly at Sherlock. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No, he really wasn't, was he?" he muses.

"And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie," John adds, which is so unexpected that Sherlock is surprised into laughter.

"He was a bad cabbie - you should have seen the route he took to get us here," he agrees, smiling when this brings out a giggle from John.

"Stop, we can't giggle at a crime scene!" John whispers, still stifling his laughter. 

"You're the one who shot him, don't blame me," Sherlock drawls with a smirk.

"Keep your voice down!" They pass Donovan and have to suppress another round of giggling. "Sorry-sorry. It's um, nerves."

"Sorry," Sherlock agrees, unconvincingly.

As they walk away John casually says "You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Of course I wasn't. Just biding my time - knew you'd turn up eventually."

John's eyes are deep blue and surprisingly shrewd. "No you didn't. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? Risk your life to prove that you're clever?"

"Why would I do that?" It isn't that he doesn't - he just wants to know why John thinks so.

"Because you're an idiot," John says, matter-of-factly. 

And Sherlock wants to kiss him, and wants to belong to John - only John - and wants John to belong to him. But he doesn't ask him. Doesn't ask to see the mark that in all likelihood, rests over the spot on John's stomach he has just put his hand to. Won't rip off his own coat to show him, and can't make his tongue say the phrase that could damn or free the both of them. Because there is a good chance that it's not John. Sherlock finds that he can't bear it, would rather remain in a state of willing ignorance than risk knowing for sure that it's not John. So what he says is "Dinner?"

"Starving," John replies airily. 

~ 

John dates Sarah for twenty-three unbearable weeks. Sherlock does not know why - Sarah's mate is Crowned With Virtue, right on the back of her hand, a small blue dove, and while this could certainly apply to John, John himself does not seem too concerned about matching with Sarah. During the week which is destined to be their last together, someone blows up the flats across from 221B and John rushes up the seventeen steps to find Mycroft sitting in a chair across from Sherlock, who is moodily plucking at his violin. 

The way the two brothers give identical expressions of disinterest when he walks in is utterly creepy, John thinks, but he is relieved to see the two of them nonetheless.

As the course of the day goes on, his relief turns to anxiety, then anger, then sick, churning dread. 

John wonders if this mysterious person who keeps sending Sherlock pictures and strapping bombs to terrified people is actually Sherlock's Crown. He has never seen his friend so enthralled, so enraptured by a puzzle in his life and the joy and anticipation in his eyes makes John want to sob in rage.  _They can't have you!_ He wants to scream.  _I don't care who they are - they can't have you! They bring out nothing but the coldest parts in you, and I know you're so much MORE than that! They aren't worthy and I WILL NOT LET THEM HAVE YOU!!!_ _  
_

John can't actually say that, of course. He would sound like an absolute nutcase. But that doesn't stop him from thinking it.

The drop from that kind of heart-pounding anxiety leaves him more forgiving, and watching Sherlock watching the telly is a whole new form of entertainment. But John needs to leave, needs to get away from the all-consuming desire to strip off the armor of Sherlock's clothing and claim him in places so deep no one will ever touch them again. But he can't do that - John hasn't the right and knowing that kills him. So he goes to Sarah's.

~

Sherlock goes to the pool, ignoring the electric jolts that pass through his right shoulder. He has a theory - he's beginning to think that the shockwaves are a sympathetic response from his Crowning mate. He assumes that his mate senses his distress or anxiety and responds in kind, resulting in the pulses of sensation. 

They feel strong enough to power a defibrillator, though.

He has the USB drive as his bait and when the door opens, Sherlock believes he is prepared.

He isn't.

John walks into the dimly lit pool, his face curiously flat. "Evening."

He cannot speak, cannot breathe, cannot  _think._

No. Nonononono. Not this. Not John.

John. 

 _His_  John.

Blank, in the way John's face never should be. "This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?" 

"John..." Sherlock breaths. "What the hell...?"

John's belly is on  _fire._  The moment Sherlock's eyes settled on his face, a pain so intense built up in the Crowning crest that for a moment, John wondered if he'd been shot again. A hot knife is sliding through his abdomen and it is taking all of his concentration to parrot back the words from the feed in his ear. He puts no effort into giving his tone any emotion. Sherlock's lost expression of hurt betrayal is burned into his corneas, the afterimage tearing through his chest. John is being ripped to pieces from the inside out and no one knows.

"Bet you never saw this coming." He'd never have known Sherlock was capable of that level of fear, but when John opens the coat and the red laser-lights flicker like evil fireflies over his chest, his horror is written so expressively over his beautiful features. "What...would you like me...to make him say...next?"

He is not proud of the tremor in his next words. "Gottle o' geer...gottle o' geer...gottle...o' geer..."

"Stop it." Sherlock's face is angry and anguished, grim. His eyes flicker all over the room, assessing. Trying to find the threat. "Who are you?"

A lilting voice at the other end of the pool. "I gave you my number...thought you might call." A man dressed in Westwood, expression cruelly vindictive and amused. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you've all been waiting for it, so here it is...

"Run, Sherlock! Run!" John lunges at Moriarty, grabbing him around the throat, the man going still but not at all frightened by his new predicament. 

John's eyes flash dark and fierce and his desire to tear Moriarty to pieces is clear on his features as he keeps him in his hold. Sherlock stares at them in shock, mind blank.

In that moment, despite being too much a coward to see John's Crowning stamp, Sherlock knows that he will never leave John. 

Because John is fearless, raging, magnificent,  _glorious._ He does not know if John's true name is Glory, but he can't possibly imagine anyone more worthy of such a title than the man before him. A man who tackled a mad criminal mastermind while wearing a jacket made of Semtex and offered to blow himself up to save him. 

It doesn't matter that he is an idiot if he believes that Sherlock would ever willingly leave him alone with this certifiable wackjob. He cannot believe their good fortune when Moriarty is willing to walk away and his hands are shaking as he rips the explosives from John's body and flings the garment as far from him as he can manage. He paces with John's pistol in his hand because he needs to keep moving or he's going to drop to his knees and kiss John on the mouth and devour him with his lips, until they're both dizzy. But John's not gay and he's not supposed to do that, so he's stuttering and pacing and words are falling from his mouth.

When Moriarty returns, it's almost a relief. When Sherlock aims the pistol, John is a rock beside him, calm and steady inside the eye of the storm. 

The bullet flies from the handgun into the explosive vest, and John flies from the wall into Sherlock.

They fall...

~

Gregory Lestrade was sixteen years old when his Crowning crest finally came it - a bit of a late bloomer, as they would say. Greg never really minded either way. He figured his odds on being lucky enough to find his match were terrible at best, so it wasn't such a big deal.

He was pretty proud of his Crowning mark, though, even if he was one of those people who only got to see theirs through photographs. It was at the base of his neck, right between his shoulder blades. The motto was " _Victoria Coronatur"_ \- crowned with victory. A midnight blue hawk, claws outstretched toward his heart, wings spread, flew forever in the center. 

Lestrade's instincts in high-pressure situations are legendary at the Met. They call it 'his instincts' but Greg knows that that is not quite true. Because it's not instinct so much as...a guardian. Whenever he finds himself in certain situations, the mark between his shoulder blades starts to tingle - as though responding to the press of a hand. In truly dire events, the whisper of a voice touches his ear.

He may not ever be lucky enough to meet his match, but he will owe them everything regardless. In his first year with the Met, he chased an armed suspect to the docks, and that voice said  _"Don't follow him into that building."_

The dockside warehouse collapsed, with the suspect inside - where Greg would have been, if it weren't for the warning of that voice.

And as a young, newly minted D.I., when he passed the unconscious figure of a young man sprawled across a doorstep in Islington -  _"Help him!"_

The young man became Sherlock Holmes, who only agreed to work for Lestrade himself - Sherlock's own strange brand of loyalty. Greg had very likely saved his life twice over - once when he prevented him from going into cardiac failure during what would likely have been a fatal overdose and once when he used his connections to entice Sherlock into using his brain from something more useful than the chemical composition of cocaine.

His guardian spoke again this night when his phone alerted him with a jangling text alert on the bedside table. He thought about ignoring it - even though his marital bed was once again empty, he was exhausted - but the tingling at the back of his neck started and the voice murmured  _"Answer it, Gregory."_

He rolls over and tries to read the bright blue glare of the screen through blurry eyes. 

EXPLOSION @ BRISTOL SOUTH SWIMMING POOL. SAME M.O. AS MYSTERY BOMBER

Swearing colorfully, Greg stumbles from the bed, finding the first clean set of clothing available, and grabbing his jacket on the way to the car. 

 When he arrives at the scene, the place is a mess, literally looking like a war zone. The building has gone up in flames and rescuers have already dragged three bodies from the wreckage. Standing at this scene is quite possibly the last person Greg expected to see there. 

He would say that it was a pleasure to see Mycroft Holmes, but that would be a lie of astonishing capacity. It wasn't that he disliked the man - even if speaking to his brother made Sherlock more impossible than usual. It was just that he never saw Mycroft unless the shit had well and truly hit the fan. From the day he saved Sherlock's life to that incident with the duck eggs last fall, Greg had come to associate his presence with local catastrophes (usually caused by or involving Sherlock) that the official would be required to clean up after. 

Which is why the first words out of his mouth are "What did he do this time?"

Lestrade sounds noticeably pained when he utters the phrase. Mycroft feels that he can sympathize. The D.I. has certainly done more than his fair share of cleaning up Sherlock's messes in the few years since they've met. "This time?" Mycroft says grimly. "He may have blown himself up."

Anthea speaks at his elbow, without looking up from her BlackBerry. "Five bodies evacuated from the rubble - two are dead, two in critical condition, and one stable." 

Lestrade is examining a report from one of fresh new officers. "One of the dead men has been identified through dental records - a mister James Moriarty. Ring any bells?"

Despite being a diplomat, Mycroft Holmes has the ability to look rather frightening when the situation calls for it.  _I always new the umbrella was a cover._ "Yes, I know of him."

"Of him?" Greg repeats.

The brunette still standing with Mycroft interrupts his questioning. "One John Hamish Watson has been stabilized for transport to St Bartholomew's Hospital. He has a head injury and critical burns across his back. 76% chance of survival. Oh." Anthea looks abashed. "64%."

"What happened?" He sounds oddly reasonable, strangely calm. Far below, in the near-mythological depths of his chilly heart, Mycroft is worried, though. Sherlock has never had another friend, not apart from Redbeard. He loves well, but not easily, and many are too preoccupied with what lives at the surface of him to reach the joyful, eager little boy that still lies at his heart. John Watson, a little ex-army doctor with the temper of a bulldog, somehow did. This is assuming, of course, that Sherlock is not also...deceased.

A bit reluctantly, she admits "Doctor Watson slipped into shock en route, Mr Holmes."

"And my brother?" Few would be able to hear the tinny note of worry in his tone, but Greg catches the undercurrent in that voice. The Holmes brothers really are too much alike. "Is he also in critical condition?"

"Regaining consciousness. Not in immediate danger. Would you like the ambulance to wait, sir?"

"Yes."

A bit bemused, Greg follows the man where Anthea leads, through the yellow maze of police tape and flashing sirens, where Sherlock has been placed onto a gurney being prepped for transport. He is already wearing an oxygen mask and despite his right arm and hair being thoroughly singed, Sherlock is also soaking weak and smells strongly of ash and chlorine. His eyes are unfocused and his voice hoarse as he whispers "John? John?" in a strangely small, plaintive tone. 

"Sherlock." Mycroft gently touches the uninjured arm.

"My?" Sherlock says weakly, looking confused. "My, what happened? Where's John?"

"Oh dear," his big brother murmurs.

"That's strangely...adorable," Greg allows.

Mycroft shakes his head, speaking in a low voice only meant for him to hear. "No. No it's not. He hasn't called me that since he was ten years old. The only time he's ever called me that as an adult was when our parents died and when he began suffering withdrawals and the pain became so unbearable he begged me to kill him." Moving closer to his little brother, he asks "Do you remember what happened inside the pool?"

Sherlock's pale eyes dart everywhere above him, staring up at the stars as though they hold the secrets of the universe. "John...and the chip. Moriarty." His eyes closed. "I shot the bomb, My." Tears begin pouring from the corners of his eyes and sting the burns along the edges of his face. "I think-I think I've killed John."

"He isn't dead, Sherlock," Mycroft soothes. "He's been taken to St Bart's by the ambulance and you-" A strange expression passes over his face then. "Sherlock, did you show John your Crowning mark?"

This, strangely enough, makes the sobs harder...though not any louder.

"Answer me, Sherlock."

Out of the corner of his vision, Mycroft sees Gregory suddenly jerk his head to the left, blinking rapidly.

"N-no. I never did..."

Just then...that sounded strangely like...

_"Answer it, Gregory."_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets his shit together. Can I get an amen?

Greg's skin prickles with the sensation of having nearly reached the conclusion to a particularly difficult and drawn-out cold case. There was...something. It was like a word on the tip of his tongue.

However, before he could find whatever it was he was looking for, Mycroft turns to Anthea. "Get him on the ambulance as quickly as possible. His proximity to John will be essential."

"Essential?" Greg questions, bemused. "His proximity...why would that matter?"

Mycroft allowed himself to breathe out slowly as Sherlock was lifted and placed into the emergency transport. He doesn't speak until Sherlock is out of earshot and the ambulance is exiting the lot. With a gesture to Anthea, he begins leaving the lot, toward the sleek black sedan without plates and Gregory easily keeps pace with him, with a relaxed alertness that feels strangely predatory. "I strongly suspect that Sherlock is John's Crowning mate. I imagine that part of Sherlock's unusually emotional outburst and John's immediate physical downturn is caused by...I believe the common term is 'straining' or 'stretching'."

Greg felt his eyebrows climb up to his hairline, but did manage to contain the disbelief in his tone somewhat. "Distress caused by Crowning mates who become separated? Doesn't that usually take - well...days, at least?"

"Yes," Mycroft allows, slowly. Something about the smell of Lestrade is making him dizzy, but the feeling is curiously...pleasant. Neither he nor his brother are fond of strong smells - they have acute olfactory senses - and most strong colognes and aftershaves make him feel choked or nauseous. The scent of Gregory Lestrade curls around him, something cool and yet intriguingly spicy. Oddly enough, it seems to be easing the migraine he's felt building since finding out that Sherlock was found in the smoldering wreckage before them. "But John and Sherlock have known each other for months and are not bound together in the permanent sense. It means that theirs is a very strong but highly unstable connection."

Off to the side, Anthea's own eyebrows have skyrocketed to be hidden by her bangs, her gaze for once lured away from the ever-pinging screen of her BlackBerry.

Neither of the men in front of her seem aware that they have stopped, and are standing just a bit too close to be considered...entirely appropriate. 

Greg cocks his head, and for some reason, Mycroft's eyes are drawn to the way the sodium streetlamps shine off the steely glint of his hair. Lestrade is straight, and married, but Mycroft can't help but find something very visually compelling about the sight. And it's silly of him. Ridiculous, really. But something in him is still breathless at the cold, beautiful color of steel. "Are you alright?" the detective inspector asks softly, dark eyes searching his face. "You look a bit peaked there, Holmes."

"Hm," Mycroft mutters, giving into the need to message his temples to relieve that blasted migraine. He feels Lestrade's eyes follow the movement of his hand as it slips from his forehead to the bridge of his nose and finally back down by his side. His smile is tight and false, polite. "Headache. I'm sure-"

What he's sure of is never resolved because Lestrade is still staring at his arm and Mycroft feels the wind being knocked out of him.

Showing someone your Crowning mark is not an appropriate gesture, unless you're about to have sex or get a medical examination. In some cultures in Africa and the West Indies, the Crowning mark is displayed - even defined, given a place of honor. But in the Western world, showing it off is the social equivalent of exposing one's genitals. 

And  _exposed_ is exactly the way Mycroft suddenly feels.

Fumbling with the cuff, he moves to yank the sleeve back over his arm when broad, rough hands clamp around his wrists. His eyes meet Gregory's and he is genuinely surprised by the grin on the other man's face. It's triumphant.

Savage.

Almost a snarl, really.

And the lights glint off his hair, iron and silver.

Mycroft has only enough time to think  _"oh...there you are"_  before Lestrade lunges forward.

He finds himself backed into a wall of brick smoothed by weather and wear. Fists are wrinkling and ruining his expensive shirt and Gregory's mouth clashes with his, vicious and hungry and wanting. 

It feels...it feels as if part of him has always been sleeping, waiting.

Mycroft Holmes finds that he is now very much...awake.

His hand curls ruthlessly into the thick, coarse strands of iron and silver and his fingernails dig into Greg's scalp and the rumbling growl this inspires makes a flush of heat travel all the way down to his groin. 

And Gregory Lestrade knows that he has truly found his match, because they are Victory, and they must utterly conquer what they pursue and Mycroft is clawing at his shoulders and biting his lips, pulling at his hair. Greg is holding his hips in a grip that would have woman or even a man of smaller statue yelping in pain and forcing him into the brick. Neither will back down and he is fucking loving this, grinding himself into the crotch of those posh fucking trousers Mycroft is wearing, which makes the man throw his head back and snarl in his ear, breath hot and heavy. He's made this cold, stiff, proper man spark like wildfire against him, burning hotter than a bloody furnace and breathing quiet obscenities into his ear and they rock together-

Behind them, Anthea coughs and loudly clears her throat. "Sir...your brother has arrived at St Bartholomew's. And Detective Inspector Lestrade's team is going to start wondering where he's wandered off to."

"Shit," Mycroft whispers, pulling away. His eyes are dark and glazed and he can't seem to look away from Greg's mouth, which is red, shiny, and swollen.

Lestrade laughs, low and soft, then slowly, reluctantly releases his hold on Mycroft. "I've got evidence to round up," he says lowly, trailing his fingers over his mate's arm, over the mark that he owns...that owns him. "And you need to make sure your brother is okay."

Mycroft's nails dig into the back of his neck. Like Sherlock, he had long ago deduced where the inspector's Crowning crest lay - he just didn't know that it would matter to him. "I'll have a car pick you up when you're through."

Lestrade raises a brow and licks his lips. "Will you, now?"

Mycroft allows his gaze to drift to the bulge below the inspector's belt. "You'll be wanting to tell your wife."

Lestrade's own gaze is heated. "Will I, now?" That red tongue, flickering over a vicious, blissfully cruel mouth. "There isn't much to say."

"Oh?" Long, clever fingers twitch at his side.

A casual shrug and the burning of those bright, brown eyes. He grins, the smile of devious little boy - but now that he knows it's there, Mycroft can see the wolf in him now. His clever, loyal predator. "I'll just tell her I'm going home."

Once more, his breath leaves him all at once. "Will you, now?"

"I only want what's mine...My-croft."

Mycroft eyes are dark and set off more sparks inside him. "I only want everything, Gregory."

Another lupine grin - triumphant, fierce, and hungry. "I know."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did mean to go back to Johnlock, but...Mystrade is very insistent. And persuasive. And kind of...dirty <3

Greg had never entertained what his Crowning mate would be like - he'd always assumed he'd be the 80% majority who never found their matches. Of course, it was getting a lot higher now with advancements in technology, but when he was a child, only thirteen to twenty people in a hundred ever found their true match. Most people would give up and get married, like he had, or would resign themselves to lives as serial daters, like John Watson. A very few, like both of the Holmes brothers, it seemed, simply never bothered in the first place.

Having done the impossible and actually found his soulmate, Gregory Lestrade, much to his own surprise, is extremely satisfied.

Most people would look at the two of them and think 'they have absolutely nothing in common'.

But they were both Victory.

And that told Greg a lot.

They were both hard-working, driven, practical, competitive, fierce, frightening - and they both really, really liked to win. They were patient in the pursuit of their triumph, but ruthless in its achievement. Once they had their eyes set upon a goal, they were bound to pursue it until the end of its course.

When Greg had seen that familiar phrase inked in silver across Mycroft Holmes's arm, he had seen his goal and there was nothing that would stop him from pursuing it. He had waited long enough, his patience had won him his prize and he would be a fool not to take it. The possessive instinct to take what belonged to him blazed through him and he'd grabbed the man and shoved him into the wall, kissing him on pure, wild instinct.

Who would ever have guessed, though, that Mycroft Holmes could kiss like a demon. Greg's mouth is still burning, hours later, as he climbs in the black car purring at the kerb that waits for him at the end of the darkened lot. Anthea is perched a seat at the far side of the leather interior, thumbs furiously tapping at keys.

"How are Sherlock and John?" is his immediate question upon buckling himself in.

"Sedated and resting in a private suite," she replies in her usual bright monotone. "Mr. Holmes has asked you not to mention what he said at the scene to them."

"About the straining?" Greg says doubtfully.

"Yes," Anthea says blandly. "That. He told me to inform you that he will address your concerns about them when you are reunited."

Greg stares at his lap, finally daring to say "Did he say anything about a Witnessing?"

"Mr. Holmes would like to wait for his brother and Doctor Watson to recover before asking the two of them to Witness for your Coronation."

He breathes out in dizzying relief. This is really happening, will really happen. They will keep each other. "That's...that's good," he says, dazed. "Yeah...that's - perfect, actually."

To formalize their joining, a Crowned pair needed to go through their Coronation - the confirmation that they were truly one, destined mates, forever. This was done by activating the memory-seals in the Crowning crests, something only a true mate could do. Each of them must provide a Witness to this event, testifying that they were participating under their own power, and that the memory-seals activated as they should.

It was an intensely personal experience, especially since the first memory unlocked by the seal would reveal why Greg and Mycroft's marks were located where they were. It would make sense that Sherlock would be Mycroft's Witness - he already knew just about anything that would be revealed and John was the perfect Witness for himself. John was the kind of man who's keep a secret to his death if that was what was required of him.

The car halted outside a home on Upper Belgrave. Well...home was probably an understatement. Mansion was closer to reality. "Mrs Beckett, the housekeeper, will show you the way to the bedroom," Anthea murmurs as he exits the car. "Mr Holmes will be joining you shortly."

=====

Mycroft Holmes is the smartest man in Britain and possibly the world and even he is not expecting what he discovers in his bedroom. 

Gregory Lestrade is spread across his sheets, languidly wanking himself off, naked and flushed. Aware that he now has company, Greg turns his head to him. "Fancy a bit of stress relief?"

He licks his lips, trying to relieve the sudden dryness there. "Are you certain that is wise?" His match is beautiful, lean muscle and dark, iron hair. "You and I are hardly more than acquaintances, Gregory. We have things to discuss..."

"And when we're finished, they'll still be there," he agrees calmly, though a bit breathless. "And I have a feeling I'm going to want to be as relaxed as possible when you tell me."

Disbelieving, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He couldn't resist the urge to run his hand down the smooth ripple of pectorals, abdominal muscles flexing beneath his touch and Greg shivers.  _Why should I resist?_ a very primitive part of Mycroft's brain hisses.  _Why shouldn't I touch? He's mine and he belongs only to me. It's my RIGHT._

The instinct is so possessive and violent that he finds himself mentally flinching away from it, withdrawing his hand. Rationality was Mycroft's dearest companion because his instincts had always been terrible - a compulsive, vicious cruelty. 

But of all the people in the world he could fool, Gregory is no longer one of them, and something must have given him away, because a pair of dark eyes are narrowing at him. It's almost as if Mycroft had actually spoken his fears aloud, because warm, roughened fingers grab his hands. Make him touch Gregory's shoulders, run down his ribs, covetously cradle his hips. Then one of their joined hands is brought to the naked man's chest, where his heart pounds strong. Gregory inhales and the force of his rib cage expanding and the pressure of his hand forces his palm against his sternum. Then he performs the same action over Mycroft's body, their hands sliding beneath the bespoke suit. Gregory's touch is casual but somehow...weighted. Possessive.  _Belonging._

And Mycroft licks his lips again, amazed.

Because without using any words at all, Gregory had just spoken more clearly than any other person in his life.  _My body, your body - it's the same thing. No difference. It's all yours. It's all mine. You can have what you want, when you want. I can't keep you from yourself and I won't try._

Mycroft tests him, because he doesn't remember how to love someone unconditionally anymore, not even himself. 

He frees his hands and bends to place his lips on the golden column of Gregory's throat, where the pulse thrums. Kisses first, chaste and soft, and then with an open mouth. Feels the muscle and tendon flex beneath his tongue - not licking, though, just pressing, tasting. Draws his lips back to connect his teeth to the skin. Not biting - warning.

Head thrown back, Greg groans, low and guttural, from a place that he can feel against his lips but seems to experience with his cock. One strong hand plunges past the waistband of his tailored trousers and the other fists itself into his hair and  _he's doing it again_  because Mycroft understands everything he says without saying anything. _Anything you want. Everything you want. Take it. Give it. Want it. Want you. Want us. Mycroft. King._

And everything rushes in, because now Mycroft knows what he wants, even though he never knew it until this very moment.

He wants to let go.

Mirroring his mate, he groans and arches back into the hot palm pressed to his prick, letting his eyes slid closed. He doesn't need to have control. He doesn't need to stay focused. Because if there is anyone he can trust, it's the man beneath him.

" _Yes_ ," Greg hisses, eyes dark and heated. He knows - he will always know. They don't speak to each other in words. Bodies are all they need, and this isn't all about sex. Only on the surface. "Fuck, yes, My. Just like that."

He tears the dress shirt off of him one-handed, the sound of ripping seams barely registering in his need-fogged brain. They take the agonizing seconds to yank the trousers and pants off as well, Greg immediately drags him on top, knees straddling hips, their aching arousals rubbing together. Hands cross over stomachs - my hand, your hand, it's the same thing - and they gasp at the contact of heated skin. Thumbs over the glans and slit, teasing. Cupping and rolling the balls and gently brushing the perineum.

Mycroft's breathing comes fast and harsh, hitching punctuated by breathy little 'unhs' as Greg takes him apart. His eyes are closed and his body oddly relaxed despite the aching tension building at the base of his spine. He wants - and needs - "King," he whispers, rolling his hips to fuck himself into Greg's fist. Supporting his weight with a elbow, lips centimeters apart. "My King."

"I am your Victory," Greg says hoarsely, pressing their mouths briefly together, oddly soft and sweet. "You know what I want - give it to me, my King."

He tenses, body arching, mouth dropping open, a long moan of "Ah-ohhhhh" and lets go, the hot splashes of release painting both of their torsos.

He'd had just a taste of it at the crime scene and Greg knew his release - in more ways than one - would be beautiful. He swears softly and moves to finish himself, but finds his hand slapped away and looks up into Mycroft's eyes.

A blue so dark, he'd swear it was...midnight.

Their cum is used as lubricant and Mycroft's nails are digging into his hip, leaving marks. The pace he sets with his hand is just as brutal and he finds that he can't hold on any better.

Mycroft smiles as beneath him, Gregory throws his head back and howls.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think the next two chapters deserve tags warnings all their own. This chapter? Angst, Mystade thinks Johnlock are two adorable idiots, humiliation and embarrassment, drugs, overdosing, discussions about suicide and emotions, and Lestrade generally being an awesome and perfect human being.

Mycroft was beginning to have second thoughts about asking Sherlock and John to Witness for them. There was one thread that had connected him with Gregory before becoming his King, and that was Sherlock. The likelihood of having the memories that had created and solidified the foundations of their relationship be  _happy_ ones was a delusional fantasy. Given the nature of John's probably connection to Sherlock, Mycroft doubted that he would want the little army doctor to see what he would be seeing today.

Speaking of which-

"You cannot tell either of them that they are the other's match," he murmurs in Gregory's ear as they walk toward the viewing room. John and Sherlock would be meeting them inside after they got settled. 

"And why is that?" his mate says, with a slide of dark eyes in his direction. "Those two idiots will spend a decade circling each other, panting and pining, if one of us doesn't do something."

He gives a smirk and then a small laugh, wondering how Gregory seems to pick up his own thoughts without any awareness of doing so. It's rather marvelous, actually. "Because I have no way of knowing with absolute certainty that John's mark matches Sherlock's and that is the only way Sherlock would be able to have the emotional courage. I expect that John does not believe that Sherlock wants a mate, along with the rather laughable presumption that he is not good enough to belong to my brother. Forcing the issue seemed...unwise."

"Eck, I see why," Greg mutters. 

"Sentiment is not really my area," Mycroft allows slowly, watching him out of the corner of his vision.

"Oh, I don't know, My," he says lightly, with a small, private smile. "You've done just fine so far."

The viewing room is a large circular space with theater seating pushed back against one wall and either with very dark or very light walls. Their particular room comes with the near-black variety. This is to allow the images to display as clearing as possible - before the Coronation process was closely followed by the government, pairs whose memories or connections were not as strong as they could be were distracted by the faint shadows of background furniture and familiar wallpaper. Viewing rooms were designed to optimize the images to maximum effect, include various scientific enhancements with the ceiling and floor to make the memories clearer, the sound more audible, the scenes draw out for as long as possible.

Mycroft was nearly sick with dread. Whatever they were going to see was not going to be pleasant and that three other people had to watch it with him was not at all appealing.

Greg was beginning to feel nervous himself. He worked in homicide - he was not naive enough to believe that the events representing their bond and the shaping of their characters was a happy, mundane affair.

They would not be the men they were, would not be Victory, would not  _belong_ to each other, if that were the case. He would consider the trade off more than fair. 

They settle within the first row, the middle seats, and wait for Sherlock and John to make their way here. Mycroft is thankful that the seating arrangement means that Sherlock will be seated with him, and John on Greg's other side, as far from each other as humanly possible. His instincts tell him Sherlock is not going to want to be within John's direct line of sight, never mind within touching distance.

The two men are finally out of their slings and bandages and generally look much like themselves rather than gigantic, walking bruises. John settles calmly beside Greg with a reassuring smile and Sherlock sits beside Mycroft, giving a huff of displeasure as he does so.

Slowly releasing a breath, Mycroft held his naked forearm out for Greg.

His mate's hands are soft, dry, and cool, and his voice much the same as he speaks. " _Victoria Coronatur."_

The room does not grow any brighter, although tiny pinpricks of light crawl up the far walls and up to the high ceiling, a unnaturally organized collection of constellations.

A moment of misty uncertainty, and then they are on one of the streets of London, striding out into the night with Gregory leading the way as he exits a panda car, Sergeant Donovan just a pace behind him. 

Neither of the Holmes brothers fail to recognize where they have appeared and Mycroft can practically taste the tension coming off of Sherlock. Most of Sherlock's time on Montague Street was spent in the mindless land of sweet cocaine or knocked down in the agonies of withdrawal.

Gregory also recognizes it. Indeed, he recognizes this _night_. Even in the dimness, Mycroft can see the sweat forming at his temples and upper lip. His eyes dart briefly to Mycroft's other side. Ah. Something to do with Sherlock after all, just as he'd thought. "Turn it off," he whispers lowly. "This-this is...turn it off."

"I can't," he reminds him softly and lays a gentle hand upon his soulmate's rigid and shaking thigh.

He is well aware that Gregory has witnessed Sherlock high. In fact, he'd watched him overdose three times - the very first of which was their introduction and Gregory had performed CPR while Sherlock was going into cardiac arrest - what could possibly have happened this night that was worse than that? _No...perhaps not worse_ , he thought, watching the man beside him put a hand up to his mouth as the scene played out. _More emotional._

"Sir, I don't understand why we're here," Donovan grumbled. "He's probably off deducing perverts in porn shops or dumping a body into a skip somewhere."

Lestrade turns his head to give her a look so sharp and pointed it actually startles the other three men watching - and makes Sally stumble a little in her heels - but doesn't make a verbal reply. The scene follows them as they climb three flights of stairs up to a green, faded, peeling door with a crooked knocker. Lestrade then pounds on the door and yells "Open up, Holmes!"

Nothing, not even a sound from beyond the door.

John, who has picked up on Greg's anxiety, goes a greyish sort of white.

Lestrade's calls grow louder and there is a frantic note that all of them pick up on as his fist meets the door even harder, rattling the hinges. "Christ - I mean it, Sherlock! You opening your fucking door right this goddamn minute or I'm breaking the bloody thing down!"

"Greg-" Donovan begins uneasily.

She is ignored. A strong, well-placed kick sends the door splintering in on its rusted hinges and before they can follow him through the door, the room ripples around them and Greg's voice sounds without the man inside the event ever moving his lips.

_"NO. OH, PLEASE NO. NOT THIS. ANYTHING BUT THIS AGAIN."_

Their bond must be quite strong indeed if the memory-seal is strong enough to pick up Greg's thoughts at the time the event occurred.

Lestrade flies into a barren room which smells of bleach and puke and dust and something burnt and vile. The cream-colored paint is dirty and peeling from the walls and there are stacks of items piled onto literally every available surface, like the crazed fantasies of a morbid burgeoning horder. In the middle of this frightening and sick disaster lies a young man that John infers must be Sherlock - _his_ Sherlock - but he can hardly see his beautiful, wild, lustrous detective in this ragged, sad creature with vomit on his shirt collapsed and shuddering upon this bare, dirty floor.

John's guts twist and burn, a knife inside him that slides into the softest part of his belly, and his eyes burn for a brief moment, but he forces himself to look, to  _see._

He is...maybe twenty-five or twenty-six years old. His skin is yellowed and the vivid eyes sunken back into his skull roll senselessly. John cringes at how thin he is - the bones are pushing so hard against that thin, sallow skin that he half-expects to see blood welling from his cheekbones and elbows where the sharpest of them have pushed through. Even the too-large pajama bottoms and t-shirt can't hide the sight of every ridge of rib visible to their gaze. Sherlock is shivering, great involuntary shudders that wrack through his whole body and his lips move through soundless motions, eyes darting around the ceiling as his muscles control slips further and further away.

Mycroft has to breath in and out slowly through his nose. He can't be more happy that this is a phantom of the past, rather than the present.

Donovan makes a sound of disgust from the back of her throat and it seems to awaken Lestrade, who was frozen in shock just past the sitting room.

"Call the ambulance," he barks, stripping off his coat and rushes to kneel beside Sherlock, laying the garment carefully over him. He palms the damp, sweaty curls and lifts the bird-thin weight of the young man's upper body into his lap. The back of Sherlock's head touches Lestrade's right forearm and a golden halo of light appears around the young man's dark hair, rippling through the room as a chime sounds far off.

This was the moment, this was the minute that Lestrade's destiny was sealed for him, the event in which his true character shines through.

As Mycroft watches him cradle the only person he has ever truly loved, he realizes that his love has expanded to include one more person.

"Hey, hey," Lestrade whispers, stroking the shaking man's cheek as his lashes begin to flutter and drop. "Who am I, Sherlock? Do you know who I am?"

John and Mycroft half expect a sardonic or blithe reply, but the drugs have utterly ravaged Sherlock Holmes and there is only the barest, weakest part of him contained in the shell they have left behind. "L-Lestrade," he gasps, pressing his cheeks into the rough broad hand before twisting to dry heave past Lestrade's knees. Thin chest heaving in breaths in great gulps. Convulsing swallowing against the nausea. And shaking, always shaking. The lashes flutter...drop...fall. "I'm...tired."

"No, no. Hey." Carefully, so carefully and gently touching that thin, hungry face, as though it were made of crepe and tissue paper. Lestrade's voice is wet and suspiciously thick. "Don't. Don't close your eyes. Your can't close your eyes, lad.  _Sherlock_." 

The desperation in his voice is enough to make Sherlock drag his eyes open again. "Why...can't I sleep?" he breathes, sounding like a plaintive child. "I'm so...so tired."

"Nonsense, you're never tired." Lestrade continues to pet Sherlock's hair, such a compulsive and terrified motion. "You're always irritatingly full of energy, even when you haven't slept in half a bloody age."

Sherlock tongue comes out to wet his lips, but his doesn't seem to have enough saliva to complete the task. Too dehydrated, probably. "I think t-that I...might be...dying," he whispers, weakly clenching and unclenching his fingers in the coat surrounding him. "Am I...dying, Lestrade?"

"No, no, no," Lestrade coughs and chokes on something that tries to be a laugh, but dies too quickly and sounds painful, tearing his lungs to pieces. "You can't die. Your brother will pick me up in one of those ruddy cars of his and I'll never be seen again."

Sherlock's eyelids flutter harder and he makes weak, jerking motions under Lestrade's careful hands. The spasms of an animal in panicked flight, dying in the jaws of a predator. "N-no! You - can't - d-don't - Don't t-tell him. You c-can't tell him. Don't. Don't. Mycroft-" More dry heaving. "C-can't tell him, Lestrade. Lestrade. Don't tell." 

"Okay, it's okay, I'm not going to tell," Lestrade murmurs. He lifts his head and glowers at Donovan, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "Where. Is. My. Fucking. Ambulance?" and she stumbles away from the room.

They pass moments alone, Lestrade still stroking across Sherlock's face and hair, whispering for him to stay awake, keep your eyes open, don't go to sleep. "You were doing so well," he grits out finally, rubbing the circles beneath Sherlock's eyes. "Why did you do this again?"

Sherlock's voice is growing fainter. "...tired..." he says again.

Lestrade freezes. "Did you...mean do this, lad?" he whispers, raw and terrified. "Sherlock...you didn't...mean to do this, right?"

Every man in the room feels his stomach drop.

The lack of muscle control means that the tears fall away from the corner's of Sherlock's eyes without him even being aware of their passing. Lids slide close. His lips barely move "...tired."

"AMBULANCE, DONOVAN!" Lestrade screams, the sound tearing away from him more painfully than the aborted, choked down crying. Hugging Sherlock to him now.

Emergency transport hauls Sherlock away and Lestrade sits on the kerb, face in hands, Donovan standing at his side. "Sir?"

"Let's go," he says abruptly, standing and walking to the parked police car.

They all expect the vision to end - except that it doesn't.

Lestrade drives back to Scotland Yard, going a bit faster than strictly necessary, and Donovan shakes her head. "Nobody at the Yard is going to believe this," she says, clucking a bit. "Third time and he looked homele-"

She - and the three men in the room - break off with a loud, startled gasp as Lestrade slams on the breaks, jolting the two of them forward in the seat. When he speaks, his voice is a ruthless snarl. "You listen to me," he begins, curling his lips back from his teeth in anger. "If I ever - ever - hear about this night again, if this is breathed to anyone outside this vehicle, I will put my foot so far up your arse, everything you eat will taste like leather for a month, Donovan."

Sally's face twists in righteous anger but the heat of Lestrade's own fury pushes it back down. "You might think that what you saw in there is some kind of joke, something you can laugh about with Anderson the next time he comes around - but _I don't find it fucking funny_ , Sally." 

"He's done this before," she points in a small voice.

"Not like this," Lestrade says, low and intense. "This wasn't-not like this."

The car fades away and the lights flicker out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how this is possible, but I think this chapter is even more intense than the last one. I don't even know anymore. Tags for: yet moar angst, childhood, painful memories, child Sherlock was adorable, teenage Mycroft was actually a scary BAMF with balls of steel, and adults are both Lawful Stupid and Lawful Evil.

Greg breathes slow and shallow as Mycroft reaches for his neck. "I don't know if I want to keep doing this."

"Just once more," Mycroft says softly, the careful calm of his hands telling his match how freaked out he really is. "Once more and we will never do this again.  _Victoria Coronatur."_

The inside of Mycroft's mouth is dry and tastes stale and bitter. He had come into this room with half a dozen thoughts about what he would see and watching Gregory's memory had narrowed those options to only one, and it is of course, the one he least wishes to see, never mind showing it to three other people - even these three other people. While what he wants is to flee, he remains rigid in his seat. 

The dark room of manufactured stars grow bright, sunlight streaming through windows and on to walls of rich wood paneling. Down the expensive wine-colored carpets of these hallways, a little boy with wild dark curls races past, laughing and shouting after a red setter dog that wags its tail, their eyes both big and bright with joy. He trips through the shafts of light, nearly sending himself tumbling into a side table (and its accompanying crystal vase) when he makes a whirling little leap after the setter. 

The harried looking woman who runs after him is very obvious either a nanny or a governess - her attire is professional and there is no affection or fondness in the crazed way she chases after him. "William, you get back here this very instant!" she screams. "I know you tore the roses out of your mother's flower garden! I'm going to warm that bloody backside of yours, William!"

"Is that so?" The small boy - William, evidently - crashes into the knees of a tall and slightly doughy young man standing at the end of the hall and watching the proceedings with mild interest. His auburn curls and aristocratic nose hint at his identity, which is confirmed by his next words. "Did I hear you correctly, Miss Shaw? You intend to administer corporal punishment for Sherlock's misdeeds?"

The boy in the scene is clinging tightly to his trouser leg, while the man beside him seems to shrink in on himself. John and Greg both wear looks of puzzlement - after all, hadn't the woman just addressed the child as 'William'?

The governess grits her teeth. "William-"

"Sherlock." Mycroft corrects, calm and firm.

"William-" Miss Shaw insists doggedly.

"Sherlock." Mycroft repeats, still placid, but with a narrowing of his eyes that makes the governess swallow hard.

"Mrs Holmes named him William," Shaw says, but her voice is not quite so steady as it was before. "And Mrs Holmes was adamant about-"

"Mrs Holmes is not present," he replied coolly, before surprising Greg and John by lifting the child clinging to his blazer and resting his weight rest on one hip. Mycroft and Sherlock stare at each other, silent and somber. "Did you tear up the roses in Mummy's flower garden?"

"I..." Sherlock's eyes dart and he clutches the blazer.

"I'll find out." The words were gentle and quiet, but knowing. Certain. "If you don't tell me the truth, you know I'll find out later."

"You always do," Sherlock agrees, almost accusatory. "I threw Redbeard's ball into the roses and he was the one who tore them up. I combed out all the leaves and petals from his coat and waited for Miss Shaw there, she would run after me instead of punishing Redbeard."

"Very noble of you," Mycroft says gravely without a trace of irony, before setting his brother back down. A slender hand with long, deft fingers dips into a trouser pocket and comes away holding a sweet inside a golden wrapper. "One of the barn cats killed a sparrow - I left it in the nursery for you to examine. Go in and look. Remember to pin it down first and use proper anatomical posing this time. I'm going to have a word with Miss Shaw and then you can show me everything."

Shaw does not bother to hide her distaste for this activity as Sherlock snatches the toffee, buries a hand in Redbeard's russet fur, and bounds away with the animal in tow.

Mycroft crosses his arms and leans against the railing of the balcony overlooking a study or library of some sort. He smiles, a calculating and utterly chilling expression that makes even the adult Sherlock by his side shiver. "Miss Shaw, do you believe that I can make you disappear?"

Her mouth drops open and she gapes, forming desperate soundless syllables, finally managing "...I-I-I, beg your p-pardon, sir?"

"I can't really make my meaning any clearer." He sighs, as if to say 'oh well...goldfish!'. "Do you think, Miss Shaw, that I could kill you, right here in this very hallway, just feet away from where my little brother is playing, bury your body in the flower garden before sunrise, and never have anyone be the wiser? Do you think I would get caught for this crime or do you think I would work out a way around it?"

The woman's face has gone white, pasty in the daylight streaming through the windows and the contrast against her green tweed skirt and jacket is not at all flattering. Mycroft's eyes look like cold stone carved into his face and while he never stops smiling, his tone becomes more vicious with every word. This, Greg realizes, this is where the Iceman began. "Because I very much doubt that I would be caught. It wouldn't be very hard - the police would likely look to your friends and loved ones first. Mummy, naturally - she's your employer. I'm a fifteen year old boy, I would barely be on their radar. And unlike my brother, I know that covering up a crime requires more effort than simply removing the evidence from the criminal. It seems to me that betting against me would be quite a gamble. You seem a bit too sensible for bets, though. Are you a gambler, Miss Shaw?"

Nearly gasping for breath, Shaw shakes her head in furious denial.

Mycroft's smile widens, never reaching his cold blue eyes. "Good. Then the next time you entertain the idea of  _ever touching my brother again_ , just remember: you aren't a gambler. And they'll never find your body."

"Bloody monster!" she blurts, turning and fleeing from him with her knees like water. 

Still calm, still steady and clever and cold, Mycroft slowly walks into the nursery to find Sherlock, curly hair tumbling over his face, bent to examine the body of the dead sparrow. Pale eyes briefly dart up to look at his face and the small child says "Is she still alive?"

Beside Gregory, he can hear John choking on his own saliva. 

A single auburn brow raises in a perfect arch and his voices is open and amused again, not that razor-sharp imitation of friendliness. "Why wouldn't she be?"

The young Sherlock glances at him again, the naked anxiety displayed there unfeigned. "You always try to look like a grown-up...when you do terrible things."

Mycroft's eyes narrow. "And when have I ever done anything terrible?"

Sherlock's chest hitches and he is trying to focus too fiercely on correctly pinning the bird to a dissection pan. "You get angry...because you have to see Her today. I don't understand why She has to come. She makes you upset and you don't-you won't play with me and you spend all your time locked in your room-"

"Sherlock-" Mycroft's face pinches and he pulls Sherlock away from the sparrow, sitting on a chair along the wall and pulling his little brother onto his lap. "My seeing the therapist is a condition of my agreement with Mummy. I can keep you here and attend to the household and outside of tutors, there is no one to bother us and no one interferes. Do you want to have to go back to Harrow?"

The little boy's milk-white skin goes, somehow, even paler. He clutches at his brother with the desperation born of dread and experience, shaking with it. "No, no, My, I don't want to go back-"

"And you won't, because I'm in charge," Mycroft murmurs, stroking his hair, caressing his back, lips brushing over his forehead. "Hush-shhh, no crying, you're okay. Nothing is going to happen, Sherlock."

Sherlock scrubs the tears away from his cheeks angrily. "But you still have to talk to That Woman."

Mycroft sighs, tearing eyes away. "Yes. Well...I consider it a necessary evil."

The study is the same room that opened below the balcony Mycroft had been leaning against earlier. He taps his carefully groomed fingernails against the arm of the chair and stares disinterested at the ceiling, while the young woman sitting across from him - barely a decade older than himself, tries to engage him. "You know that anything that you tell me here is said in confidence, right, Mycroft?" she says softly, trying to gain an emotional response with her gentle eyes and imploring speech. That is ridiculous, since the only emotional appeals that work on him come from an eight year old boy. She sigh, realizing that her technique is not working. "Alright, then. Let's talk about your brother."

"Mmm." Is his uninterested reply.

"Your mother has raised some concerns about your relationship with Sherlock."

A snort.

The therapist - Wendy Sinclair - leans forward in her chair. "You are a highly intelligent boy, Mr Holmes. Surely you realize that your relationship with your brother is not healthy."

"No one's relationship is healthy," the teenager says, still staring at the ceiling idly. He flexes his fingers before they resume tapping - God Save The Queen, bless him. John wonders if this is the precursor to his umbrella attachment. "That's how you know you're in one."

"But you are not William's parent, Mycroft," she says earnestly. "The staff here tell me that he refuses to answer to his real first name because you called him 'Sherlock' and now he won't answer to anything else, and you won't permit any of his caretakers to discipline him. You spoil and cater to Sherlock, Mycroft."

"I certainly do not," Mycroft says mildly. "And my mother named him Sherlock - William Sherlock Scott. I simply transferred it into everyday use. I wasn't going to be the only one exempt from her perverse naming habits. He was already lucky enough not to be stuck with 'Mycroft' as a first name."

Mrs Sinclair is undeterred, doggedly attached to her topic of conversation. "The mere fact that he refuses to answer to any name but the one you yourself gave him should be alarming to you, Mycroft. You obviously love him very much, but you resent your mother. Do you resent her so bitterly that you have to erase every part of her from William?"

"Sherlock is eight years old. He spent ages four through six answering to "Sherlock" "Lock" "William" or "hey, you come here". I wouldn't put much stock in what he answers to at this point." Cold blue eyes sweep over her, up and down and the other three men have some indication of what is about to emerge from his mouth before he says "You, Mrs Sinclair have been married for six months, just after finishing your graduate degree. You got a great deal of notability for your dissertation and several other papers you wrote while still in university and you're eager to prove your abilities. You want another great paper to seal your ranks in the experts of psychotherapy and that's why you agreed to this - two boys from a wealthy background with a dysfunctional family. The oldest, you assume, has an Oepidus Complex of some sort and a frighteningly high IQ that has ostracized him from his peers, while the youngest is out of control and displays several different markers for anti-social personality disorder, and could possibly be an outright sociopath. Since you've clearly displayed your incompetence to me as a student of human behavior, I think we're done here."

The room ripples, the scene changes, and a woman with chillingly blue eyes is frowning at Mycroft from her perch upon a brocade sofa cushion. She smooths her dark curls, her cream-colored dress. "We had an agreement, Myc."

Greg feels fingers laced with his and by the strength of Mycroft's grip, he knows that something terrible is about to happen to him, to this teenage boy in front of him.

Mycroft's sneer is ugly and hateful. "You saddled me with the name 'Mycroft', woman. Could you possibly struggle all the way to the end, please? And that was before I realized how much of an incompetent moron the therapist you hired was." 

Violet Holmes's mouth makes a little moue of distaste. "William is going back to Harrow, My-Mycroft."

His mouth drops open and Mycroft looks horrified - the first sign of emotional weakness in him. "But they'll eat him alive! I promised him he wouldn't be sent back - he'll hate me!"

"He never loved you, Mycroft."

Mycroft's head snapped up and he stares at the woman who gave birth to him with nothing but a cold, consuming, brain-blurring slurry of hatred. "What did you say?"

Violet looks back at him sadly. "I...had William evaluated." He freezes, his whole mind and body locked into a continuous feedback of  _oh-fuck-no-why?._ His mother is still speaking. "He doesn't feel things the way you do, Myc. I know that you love him - and you're such a good big brother - but he can't love you back. It just-it isn't how he works, darling. He manipulates you because he knows you'll protect him, you'll take care of him, but he can't love you back. A sociopath - even one who functions at such a high level as William - can't love anyone but himself."

Like Lestrade's in the previous scene, the connection is strong enough to tie into Mycroft's thoughts, which are...disturbing. 

_"BURY HER UNDER THE STABLE FLOOR - NO. SHOVE HER IN A TRUNK - COVER IT IN CEMENT AND DUMP IT INTO THE MILL POND-"_

The rage that rises over him blinds him, makes him forget to be careful with his words, careful with his cruelty and his anger. "I...I hope he  _kills_ you."

The gasp of Greg and John is echoed by a small boy standing in the doorway of the room, eyes wide with hurt surprise, already streaming tears.

Mycroft's hand squeezes his so hard Greg fears he might lose circulation.

The small Sherlock turns and flees the room, slamming painfully into a statue in his haste, tears blinding him. Mycroft runs after, his adolescent voice cracking as he screams "Sherlock, no, I didn't mean-!"

Behind him, their mother calls "Mycroft, no! He's manipulating you again!"

The teenage genius shoves Violet so hard that the sofa moves across the floor before running after his brother, calling his name. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm sorry-"

"I DON'T LOVE YOU! I DON'T NEED YOU! I'M A HIGH-FUNCTIONING SOCIOPATH!" The tiny voice rages.

A door slams in the distance and Mycroft cannot contain himself anymore - every item in the vicinity is smashed, hurled, thrown, destroyed in the force of his anguished fury and he is sobbing with the pain of the emotions flooding him.

Drained and gutted, the teenager goes to the floor in a crouch, tears sliding down his face. He presses his cheek to the gilded wallpaper, his crying soundless and pained as the moisture is wicked away by the wall. His posture is defensive, like a wounded animal. His fingers laced behind his head, trying to contain it all.

The chime sounds, sad and distant, as the golden light flares around his fingers, shivering away from the base of his neck. It is the moment he lost his brother, and the moment the connection to his soulmate was sealed.

Mycroft tucks his legs up to his chest, face bent to his knees, clutching the back of his head, and weeps silently with bitter sorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally wrote this while listening to Nina Simone's "Sinnerman" - which is (not coincidentally) the same song that plays before Moriarty's court appearance in The Reichenbach Fall. And bravo for whichever production member chose that because - holy fuck, were they spot on.
> 
> POW-WAHHH! (powah, lord)
> 
> Was this too long for you guys? Because I feel like this chapter is super long...that might be due to the ridiculous amount of time I've had it inside my head, though.


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as the lighting the Coronation Room returned to normal daylight, Sherlock sprang up from his seat and stormed out into the hallway, long dark coat sweeping out behind him. Greg glanced over at Mycroft, who was frozen in his seat, eyes staring blankly out into nothingness. And because their seals have been broken, Greg can access the pieces of him that were closed off before. What comes to him is nothing as clear as a thought - thoughts have words and sharp images to attach to emotions. This is the intuition of knowing something that you yourself have done, without the memory of having done so. Just vague emotional outlines and the certainty of knowledge.

Mycroft had forgotten how horrible it was going to be, Greg realizes. It was not a memory he was capable of deleting, but for years he'd been able to shove it down, push it away as unimportant, irrelevant data. Buried beneath years and years worth of other memories to avoid thinking about the event that began the rift between the two brothers. 

And with that realization comes the action, the action waiting within Mycroft's body that is executed by Gregory's limbs, jumping from his seat with a quick "Stay here!" directed to John.

Sherlock is pacing inside the hall, limbs twitching. If he is surprised by Greg's appearance, he doesn't allow the emotion to show on his face, the stoic mask of dispassion and cold examination stealing over his features, his face hauntingly white even in broad daylight. Greg recognizes this mask - it's an eggshell creation, meant to protect Sherlock in is most fragile moments, the moments before he lashes out with the blade of barbed tongue. Perfect and yet, easily smashed to pieces. 

Speaking to him is useless in this state.

So he doesn't. 

He is acting through Mycroft, knows his mate's will burns through him icy-quick. And his voice within him -  _You don't have to do this, Gregory._

 _Yes. Yes, I do._ He knows now, that this was his destiny. This was the purpose he was meant for. Gregory Lestrade will be the dark, rich earth that lies between the fury of the volcano and the endless tide of the sea. 

Swiftly approaching the agitated man, Greg slings an arm around his shoulders and just. Stays. 

Holds on.

Sherlock is rigid and unmoved by the embrace. Not pulling away, no, but not accepting any of the comfort he offers. 

Then a large hand, surprisingly warm, rests between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "I'm sorry." His brother's cultured tones are soft and low, but the sincerity slides through each centimeter in which they are connected, Mycroft's fingertips lightly scratching into his back. "I am sorry, brother mine."

Greg looks back as Sherlock glances into his face. Knowing. Knowing now that staring into Lestrade's dark brown eyes is generally the same as staring into his brother's hard sea blue. And they watch together as Sherlock sighs and closes his own eyes, the sudden slackness of his frame pressing his forehead into Greg's shoulder.

Mycroft...didn't really mean to imply that he could kill their mother, that he was really a sociopath incapable of loving his family. Sherlock did believe that now. His words had been meant to hurt Violet, to sting her with the realization that Mycroft wished her dead - _not_ that he wished Sherlock were a murderer.

One mistake. Mycroft had only ever made that one mistake. But, oh, what that one mistake could do...

"I...want to forgive you," he admits quietly, and feels Greg's hand touch his hair, echoes of their past together.

Mycroft's answer is a hush, a breath he releases, because that is more than he has ever gotten, more than he has hoped for in the past twenty-five years. His words are the most honest he has ever spoken: "I want to be forgiven."

~

It honestly takes everything in him. It shouldn't be this tempting, but old habits die hard and Mycroft is beginning to grow tired of watching the pair of them struggle. It was funny, at first, but seeing John pine and Sherlock suffer is starting to grate at him - and Gregory, too.

He steps casually forward, trapping one small white corner beneath the black polished toe of a bespoke shoe. The sheet slides down Sherlock's back, flashing the pale curve of one buttock before his little brother hastily stops to catch it, desperately making the attempt to cover his modesty. Out of the corner of his vision, he watches John swallow heavily, staring at the exposed skin as if it is a map to buried treasure he must memorize.

John Watson is not a greedy man, in Mycroft's estimation - and it is a very good estimation, indeed. He's not the sort of man to covet what belongs to someone else. But his facial expression in that moment is so close to avarice that he nearly feels sorry for his little brother.

Nearly. 

"Get off my sheet!" Sherlock demands in a hiss. Mycroft would be the only one in the room able to hear the shaking note of panic beginning to creep into his voice. 

"Or what?" he asks coolly. Come on, little brother. Gather that signature audacity you so readily possess. Turn and _show him_.

"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock says, trying to sound haughty and instead sounding anxious. Facing forward. Refusing, to all appearance, to engage his brother in the argument. In reality, refusing to reveal his dearest secret, to his dearest friend.

John tears his eyes from Sherlock and stares back at him. It's John's face Mycroft gazes into as he speaks. "I'll just let you."

A flicker of hunger on those patient features, before John softly says "Boys. Not here."

Relieving Sherlock of the indignity, of the embarrassment. He thinks about pushing this further.  _Don't._ The voice is not his, with a drawling Essex flavor.  _You can't force them - Sherlock will only be angry with you and John will rise to defend him._

He tilts his head, allowing that his soulmate may have a point. He doesn't not admit defeat, exactly - he simply retreats to fight the battle another day.

~

When Irene walks into the room, his mind stalls and freezes. He can't-he doesn't- _they don't speak the same language._ Everything she says is a come-on, an innuendo. She speaks in double entendre, coy allure dripping in every syllable and Sherlock stumbles over his words, unable to communicate with someone whose only language is entirely based upon a subject he knows nothing about. 

If it was bad when he is alone, it becomes physically painful when John walks into the room. His pupils blow wide and John cannot take his eyes off the woman. There is a scorpion on her inner thigh that is Coronata Ira - Crowned by Wrath - and that could certainly be John and it would explain why he wouldn't want Sherlock to see-He feels ill. He stumbles and stammers over words, sick with jealousy because John is staring at her, bared naked to him, with dark sultry eyes and red lips and-and-

 _You're supposed to look at_ me _that way._

"The Woman" has taken something from him and it was never his, but John, his good, precious John - he let him pretend. John's been allowing him to pretend for months that Sherlock can keep his John all to himself...but the truth comes barreling back to him in that one instant, as John stares at Irene intently with a bulge in his jeans that wasn't there before. John isn't his.

John would never want a King - John...wants a Queen. Because John is attracted to women. 

_You...were supposed to look at me that way..._

That one, forlorn thought escapes his avoidance procedures before it is stuffed away and logic returns. He pretends that he has no mark on his shoulder again and that he possesses no understanding of the emotions connected to love. 

It takes a lot more effort than he thought it would.

~

The night after Irene tricks Sherlock, after the Bond Air fiasco and the "Sherlocked" phone, John lays in his bed beside the newest girlfriend (Nancy), cursing his fortune.

Sherlock is obviously heartbroken, betrayed by the woman he thought loved him - the woman he...loved?

Sherlock is attracted to women. Sherlock has a Queen...

One floor below him, Sherlock feels like an idiot, because for all that Irene believed he was showing off for her, it was John's attention he wanted. 

_Wanted you to look at me that way..._

He stretches out on the bed and feels the cold sheets whisper against his skin.

Hungers for a warm body - a body with rough, talented hands and a warm tenor tone and the steadiest heartbeat in the world.

Aches to be touched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...not sure what I think of this chapter yet. Not entirely happy with it, to be honest. Opinions?
> 
> P.S. - I could not possibly resist writing in the scene that gave me my username. Shameless self-promotion? Maybe.


	10. Chapter 10

"'Caring is not an advantage?' Really, My?" Greg says with a frown of displeasure. "Was that even necessary? He already spends all of his time pretending his humanity means nothing to him."

"Logically, it is true. And he was in turmoil - he needed something to take refuge in. So I gave it to him." Mycroft replies, mostly unrepentant. "Reason is a security blanket for Sherlock. He needed it and I gave it to him."

"It's a fetish," Greg argues. "The two of you have turned philosophy and logic into some kind of perverse self indulgence."

A bit startled by this comparison, Mycroft says "Did you just compare my interest in the pursuit of intellect to a form of masturbation?"

"That depends more on whether or not _you do_ ," he says with a particular twinkle in his eye.

"Gregory." Mycroft's voice is half an octave lower.

"Yes?"

"Come here."

=====

Sherlock is desperate and needy and his skin itches and crawls with the aching urge of unfulfilled satisfaction. 

"I need some, John. Get me some."

He can make John believe that nicotine is what has inspired this sudden desire. The truth is, heroin is child's play and cocaine is a cup of tea next to this feverish craving that eats him apart. 

Sherlock spends agonizing hours with this need, his body weeping and screaming. He has to beg, because he just can't take it anymore, but he can't possibly beg for what he actually wants. 

_Touch me, John, please! I need it, god, I need - I need your hands on my skin. Anywhere. Everywhere. Please._

It was torture. He burned, and burned, and burned, until his lungs were black and cold and his heart had turned to a bright white ember.

John thought he was bored and restless, but the truth is that the only interesting things his brain can think of are what John smells like and how his lips might feel. How his palms might feel skimming over his inner thighs, his hips, his lower back.

It's built up for days and days. He stands too close at crime scenes and crowds John every time he enters a room, but god, it's the only thing that helps. 

Sherlock's body is on fire and John Watson is the only thing that will quell the flames. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

This, John thinks, this just isn't fair. 

Sherlock is a wild ball of chaos. This is not really a problem, because Sherlock is always a wild ball of chaos. But now he wants a cigarette and he's  _desperate_ and needy and begging with that gorgeous mouth and those big beautiful eyes. John tries to stay calm while trying to determine whether or not he's gone to hell. 

John has heard the nicknames Moriarty had given the Holmes brothers - the Iceman and the Virgin. He wonders how...accurate that particular name is when applied to it's intended target. He knows he is a bad, bad man because he cannot seem to stop thinking about this. 

Thinking about Sherlock's long lithe body, never touched before his hands, presenting himself for John to worship. That sinful mouth, unkissed and begging for John to give him his first taste of pleasure. Those captivating eyes, half-lidded and hazy as he let's himself be overwhelmed by the heady sensations.

 _I would be so good to you,_ John thinks before he can stop that train of thought.  _So good. Make you feel things even you wouldn't be able to imagine._

He still doesn't know if Henry's arrival is heaven - sent or just the road sign on their arrival to yet another of level of the underworld. 

He does know that his bollocks fucking ache and that these thoughts are inappropriate and bordering on outright disrespectful. Assuming that this nickname is true and not simply a means of demeaning Sherlock, he is apparently attracted to women and if he'd saved his body this long, what exactly makes him believe that Sherlock will give it up to John Watson, M.D? 

He does stand too close and completely disregard John's sense of personal space. But he's always been that way. 

But his stare borders on pornographic when he begs for a fag and the way he pouts, pushing out that lower lip (it's a crime, that lush, perfect mouth - not a single kiss? No, that would just be a travesty.). The way he says "please" so soft and pretty it makes his dick leak in his jeans, and this, John thinks, is not fucking fair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently John has an undiscovered virginity kink? This is a bit shorter than usual - partially because I had to do it on my phone and partially so you guys can have two updates in one week. 
> 
> Wrote this one listening to "Human" by The Killers. I think it fits Sherlock very well. 
> 
> Wow - the comments and bookmarks for this story broke the one hundred mark and kudos well beyond five. I honestly didn't expect such a huge response from you guys. I will say that I'm really enjoying the world of Sherlock and once this project is finished, I'm eager to start a new one.
> 
> P.s. - I fail at adulting. Adulting is hard. And I have such a love/hate relationship with the auto correct on this phone right now.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling super creative, so here's chapter 11! Wrote this listening to "Habits (Stay High)" by Tove Lo - the original AND the Hippie Sabotage remix.

"How do you feel about making a trip to Dartmouth?" Mycroft asks, staring at the cameras in front of his desk. 

He knows, because he always knows. Mycroft could be the most convincing actor on the planet and still wouldn't be able to confuse Gregory. There is nothing unusual to reveal his emotion in his tones, but Greg still responds with "What's wrong, My?"

Silence for a moment before Mycroft says "I need you to keep an eye on Sherlock. He's already crashed his way into Baskerville military base, and I don't have time to keep cleaning up after him from London."

Gregory's response is nearly calculating, reminding him once again that his match only seems like a laid-back detective. "But that isn't what you're worried about." 

"No," he allows. Then: "Do you remember what I told you about soul-strain?"

"That Sherlock and John have an unstable bond?" Greg wonders, catching on quickly. 

"Yes."

"They still aren't bound together." 

"Yes," Mycroft says again. "And that is the whole problem."

"How can they feel distress at being separated from each other when they're not fully bound and they are not, in fact, separated to begin with?"

"That," Mycroft says succinctly "is precisely why they are in danger now. Their seals want to be complete, Gregory. They actively seek to be a whole. What they are doing now is going against every rule of nature. They are beside each other, but never together. This has evidently already begun to directly effect Sherlock's health."

Greg looks alarmed. "Is he okay?"

Mycroft's face twists into an odd expression of uncertainty, one foreign to his features. "Separation isn't just the level of space between two people, Gregory," he says finally and reaching out to lace their hands together. "If there's no point of contact between them, there's nothing to sustain the existence of the bond."

Greg's fingers trace the paths of veins. "They...don't touch each other," he realizes "They're in each other's way all the time, but they never actually...Hang on, if you're saying that Sherlock is getting sick because they won't let themselves reach out, then why isn't John sick too?"

Mycroft's voice is soft as he says "John is a normal adult male and accordingly, he has found other outlets for his sexual desires. They are incredibly poor substitutes for Sherlock, but it is able to temporarily distract him from what he wishes for. I suspect this is the real reason behind his increase in female company. But Sherlock has no substitute, would never let any man but John close enough to get any relief from the tension. Physically, I imagine he is in near constant agony - a relentless thirst he cannot seem to satisfy. I've read accounts of similar situations. Others described it as a burning ache originating near the groin that goes all the way up the torso and into the extremities. Sherlock is definitely at this stage."

Greg swallows. "What's the stage after burning?"

Mycroft's eyes darkened. "Numbness, beginning in reverse, from the tips of his fingers and toes to his core. After that is a chill, intense cold that can't be relieved by normal methods. I'm told that reaching that particular stage means Sherlock will have somewhere around 48 hours to live."

"It can actually kill him!?" Greg exclaims, dark eyes going wide. 

"Given enough time and distance, yes. Sherlock will eventually be unable to regulate his temperature, or his breathing and heart rate. It will simply be a matter of which of these kills him first."

"You don't sound worried about it." Greg says, raising a brow. 

Mycroft smirks. "He has a good doctor. If he starts shaking and shivering, what do you think John's most likely to do? At the moment, John is facing his own torture."

"You said his sex life would distract him from those symptoms, though."

"Yes, but Sherlock is his mate and he requires gratification. Requires it so fiercely in fact that he's in actual distress. John obviously doesn't see it on a conscious level, but a part of him undoubtedly feels compelled to be giving him the satisfaction he needs. The sheer energy he must expend on trying to focus and behave normally must be exhausting."

Greg nods and chuckles. "You Holmes brothers - never afraid to ask for what you want, but you'll die of thirst in the middle of a lake if it means admitting that you NEED something. We'd be just the same way, you know." 

Mycroft's fingers are tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. "Imagine that I spent every waking moment feeling every molecule in my body cry out for you, like a record that never turns off, because I couldn't have you," he murmurs, eyes fixing on his mate's lips. "What would you do, Gregory?"

His beautiful mate's dark brown eyes appear nearly black as they narrow. He holds the gaze as Gregory's fingers reach out to stroke his jaw. "I would spend every waking moment fantasizing about the moment I could reach you again." He closes his eyes, pressing his lips to Mycroft's. The touches are soft, simple, but the air between them is anything but. "I can't - I need to have you now."

 Mycroft feels a thrill run through him. "Yes, Gregory." A catch of breath as teeth worry at his earlobe, a wickedly clever tongue brushing against the outer shell. Shaky. Hazy. More real than anything he's ever known. "Please."

"Relax, My. Just relax."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even shorter than the last one. You guys prefer the short ones more frequently or long ones whenever I can get them out?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this watching "Sixteen Candles" with my mom. I am pretty sure that this fic has taken over my life. 
> 
> P.S. - this shit gets pretty real, children.

The urgent itch crawling around his skin has been steadily increasing since the moment John barked orders at the helpless and surprised Corporal Lyons. Baskerville itself makes him feel the tiniest bit better. It's wild and windblown and the moors make Sherlock feel like he has the space to breathe and think. That feeling goes away when he and John take Henry out to Dewer's Hollow.

Henry is agitated and his anxiety is catching. The moors are dark and lined with frost on the moonless night and before long, John has disappeared and Henry has turned into a whimpering, useless wretch.

And then, Sherlock is alone, on the moor, at night.

His skin prickles, the air feels damp and chill, and Sherlock feels like has begun to he is wandering around in circles. The fog bank permeating the landscape obscures any identifiable landmarks and when he hears a rustling sound and sees a shape emerging from the mist, Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. "John."

Soft, giggling laughter that sends a thrill of fear and dread down his spine. "'Oopsie! We seem to have lost Johnny-boy."

"Moriarty," he breathes, the terror crawling all over his skin. "You're dead."

Another laugh. "'Obviously not, Sherlock. Don't you wonder why your little pet scampered off?" Sherlock has sunken into the dirt, but he can't feel it, can't feel his legs, or the way his breathing hitches, and the careening race of his heart. "It's because he left you...freak. Why would John want a freak like you? You and I, we're meant for each other, Sherlock."

He feels a caress over the Crowning mark on his right shoulder, concealed through layers of fabric and thinks he might be sick. "N-no."

"Yes," Moriarty hisses. "You're mine, Sherlock. You understand me better than anyone ever has and you know it! Who else would love you but me? No one else would want a sociopath for a mate. We belong together." And Jim shifts his collar, showing off the edge of a skull. 'Corona Gloriae' swims in front of his eyes and Jim's breath is hot and fetid against his face. "I just love to watch you dance."

=====

 John had heard the sound of a dog baying in the distance and began picking his way through the wild undergrowth, torch in hand. "Bugger," he mutters, squinting into the darkness. "Sherlock, if I get eaten by a giant hell hound I am not doing your laundry anymore..."

In another direction from the howling canine, a ragged breathless scream pierces the quiet of the eerie moors. It was in a lower register than Henry's voice and it sounded a lot like... "Sherlock."

Swearing under his breath, John begins leaping blindly through the night, praying that his friend has not been hurt. It's in this way that he ends up crashing straight into someone running from the opposite direction as though the actual hounds of hell are on his trail. 

Sherlock is white as a sheet, shaking from head to toe, and when he sees John, lets out a small sob of relief. "John!"

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" John cries, dragging him up from the bushes by one arm. 

"You left me," Sherlock croaks, and his heart breaks. 

"We got separated," he says softly, squeezing his shoulders. "Did you see the hound? Where's Henry?"

"Moriarty," he chokes out. "I saw Moriarty!"

Taken aback, John whispers "Moriarty is dead, Sherlock. You and I, we blew him up. We watched it happen."

"He was THERE, John!" Sherlock shrieks "He was there and he spoke to me!"

"Alright,  alright. Just calm down. I still have the rifle and he won't have any snipers out here." As he retrieves his torch from the dirt, he sweeps the light over his detective, he socks in a quick breath. "Jesus, Sherlock...what the hell have you done to yourself?"

Sherlock's eyes are wild and glassy, pupils dilated huge and black in his thin white face. Scratches cover the right side of his neck and past his collar bone to his shoulder, red and bloodied gouges above the slightly shredded shirt collar. "I had to get it out, John. He was on me. I had to get him out."

"What do you..." John's eyes wander down to the blood - spattered section of his shirt again. "Oh my god, Sherlock! Did you try to scratch off your Crowning crest!?"

"If it belongs to him,  _I. Don't. Want. It._ " Sherlock hisses, clawing reflexively at his shoulder again. "I always thought - I can't, John, I can't! I don't want to be a monster like him."

"Oh. Oh, Sherlock." John falls in front of his detective, carefully cupping those amazing cheekbones. "Listen to me. You could never be Moriarty, Sherlock. Moriarty is a spider with the face of a man. He's got no heart in him. You...god, Sherlock - your heart is so big, I spend half my time wondering why everyone else is too blind to see it. I have never met anyone as joyful, as  _human_ as you are." Swallowing, John dares to reach up and places his palm flat upon the bloody fabric over the crest. "Whatever you saw out there, it lied to you, Sherlock."

Sucking in a breath through his teeth Sherlock bows his head and whispers "I think...I'm afraid, John."

John shuffles forward, until Sherlock's forehead rests on his own shoulder. Uncertainly, he strokes the silky dark curls and Sherlock gives a soft, low sound near his throat that makes John want to pull him so much closer, hold him so much tighter. "I know, Sherlock. And it's okay. Let's go back to the village. I think it's pretty clear that something is going on in Baskerville and we need to find out what."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such an awful tease. In my own defense, I definitely made this longer than usual to make up for the wait.
> 
> Warning: includes blood, weirdly large amounts of masturbation, and sad gay babies.

_I am an idiot,_ Sherlock tells himself, staring into the bathroom mirror back at the inn. His Crowning mark is in ruins, obscured beneath a series of bloodied gouges and nail-marks. The skin will eventually heal, as unblemished as it ever was before. Nothing can ever get rid of a Crowning crest, which was part of the problem. He couldn't be sure that he wouldn't have tried to cut the whole bloody arm off, if he'd had a knife or saw available. Not that it would have done him any good. The mark would instead appear somewhere else, another location of fate's choosing. 

On the other side of the bathroom door, he hears John shuffling nervously. Contemplating the idea of checking on him, Sherlock realizes. Too long since he heard him making any noise. 

Sighing, he turns on the taps in the bath and steps under the spray, hissing like an angry cat at the stings of pain drilling into his shoulder. It does not quell the ache in his groin. John was close tonight - not close enough, but so close. Sherlock could smell him, nearly taste the salty-sweet scent of his skin. He'd run his hands up and down Sherlock's body, checking for injuries not immediately visible. 

That sensation of gun-calloused palms he calls up again, trailing his own hand his stomach, biting his lips to block the sound of his cries. Imagines that his hand is shorter, broader, rougher. His teeth press harder on his lip as he angles his body in a path of the water that puts his injured shoulder out of the way, but leaves his lower half to be caressed by the hot spray. 

Sherlock weaves his fantasy:

John is standing behind him, broad and gentle, running those calloused hands down his flank. (He smooths a hand over his ribs, his whimpering lost beneath the sound of rushing water). Those warm, capable hands wrap around his cock, twisting on each up stroke, knowing just how to take him apart. John's voice is golden and velvet, rough and soft and warm. "Wanted you so much..."

His cock pulses beneath clever, knowing hands, twitching with need for this man.

Sherlock throws his head back on John's shoulder and grinds himself against the hard bulge in his trousers. "Please," he begs, spreading his thighs wide. The roughness of those hands make him shiver as they begin rolling and teasing his bollocks and he pleads for satisfaction in soft, low whimpers. "Please, John..."

"You're so close," he whispers, pressing in behind him, possessive and dominating. 

"Yes, yes," Sherlock sobs, bucking against him. 

"Now," John breathes, pinching one hard pink nipple. (He pinches his own nipple, hot steam curling around his neck). "Now, Sherlock. Come on - show me."

Sherlock's mouth parts in a silent scream. He comes fisting his own prick, leaning against the wall and grinding his arse into an imaginary hard on. 

The itch has not disappeared from his body, but it's at least bearable this way. 

He washes the semen from his hands and blood away from his crest, the color nearly camouflaged by the gore. Very little of it remains visible under the torn flesh. 

Sherlock finds himself...saddened by this. 

Now, away from the dark moonless moor and the hallucination of Moriarty, Sherlock stares down at the barely remaining symbol of his soulmate - the symbol he'd tried to scratch off his own skin - and feels that he has betrayed someone dear to him. 

With a small, exhausted moan of something like grief, he leans against the tiled walls. 

In their room, John is torn between anxiously listening at the door and hurriedly unzipping his fly. He is worried about his friend's state of mind, but if he doesn't do this now, he'll fall asleep in the bed next to Sherlock and wake up face down and moaning his name. He'd rather save himself the embarrassment and have a quick wank while the genius is in the shower. 

 Licking his lips, John closes his eyes, his private desires plastered to his eyelids like a big bright  _beautiful_ poster.

 And oh, he is beautiful, just lovely spread out over his bed, wriggling his pretty arse as he squirms with impatience. Pale and smooth all over, his Sherlock is. Sleek and lean muscled like a wild predator. In a hurry as always, he gives him another teasing sway of that obscenely luscious arse.

John doesn't have to suppress his desires here. He can give in to his urge. 

 He cups his hands over the generous swells of flesh, kneading at the muscle, and above him, Sherlock moans into the pillow. John spreads him open to his gaze, until he's looking at the prettiest little hole he's ever seen. Lightly, he brushes his thumb over the delicate opening, feeling it twitch at his touch. 

John leans down, craving just one taste. (In the darkened room, John licks his lips again as he strokes himself, knowing that he could never be satisfied with only one taste.)

Sherlock breathes out a sound like a revelation, the small "Oh!" of epiphany at the end of an especially interesting deduction. John is dizzy with lust, that wine-dark voice and the seductive flutter of that lovely tightness makes him hungry, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss to it.

Sherlock groans, parting himself wider under the invasion, hips tilting up to present himself to John's mouth. John is greedy for him - for his body, for his sounds, for his pleasure - and he grabs that plush arse, spreads him wide, and slides his tongue inside. 

Sherlock jerks around him, panting into the sheets, and fucks himself back onto John tongue-

With a shaky exhalation, John comes in his fist, a name hanging on the edge of his lips. 

When he finishes cleaning himself up, he throws his pillow at the wall.  _I am an idiot._

=====

"I was drugged," Sherlock finally says, when they have settled in front of the inn's fireplace and Sherlock has cleaned himself up. He winces as he shifts his shoulders and John cringes in sympathy. "And Henry was drugged as well."

"How do you figure that?" John asks, giving his tumbler of whiskey a small sip. 

"You and I both saw Moriarty die, and even if we hadn't, the odds of finding him in a dark field in Dartmouth are very, very low," he says, nearly calm and steady by now, taking a drink from his own glass. "What I do not know is how the drug was administered...and why you were not affected in the same way."

John's lips quirk up in almost a smile. "You've got a theory, I suppose."

Sherlock almost - smiles in return. "I've got six, in fact."


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft knew he was more irritable than this day's events really called for. Gregory had been at Baskerville for four days (three nights). It was...unpleasant. He couldn't say that he was in true distress, not really, not like John and Sherlock. But something was wrong whenever Gregory was not with him, like having an eyelash scratching your cornea. Seemingly inconsequential, but painful and irritating nevertheless. 

When Mycroft stepped inside the front door, he knew Gregory had returned, without seeing any evidence. Without even having to reach their connection, he knew his mate was somewhere in the house, because his body began to relax without any conscious effort on his part. 

 _Where?_ He asks, then realizes he's answered his own question as soon as the connection is made.  _Ah, kitchen. Hungry, Gregory?_

_Wanted you. Settled for custard creams._

_I'm coming._

_Not yet, but I'm sure I can fix that if you'll let me._

His knees feel weak as he steps through the doorway into the kitchen. "Gregory."

Gregory does not respond - well, not with words, anyway. What his mate lacks in verbal prowess he makes up for with the devastating eloquence of his body. Mycroft finds himself being dragged into the room by his lapels and rapidly divested of his suit. "Eager?" He manages to gasp as Gregory tears off his jacket and shirt and begins to unzip him. "You do not usually display this-hah!-this level of - ahhhh - impatience."

As it turns out, talking is a challenge even for the great Mycroft Holmes when there's a hand wrapped around his cock. As surprising as this sudden and ferocious - though not unwelcome - groping was, he has room for astonishment when Gregory, still fully clothed, shoves him against the table and starts to lick and suck every inch of skin he can reach. "Mine," he hisses, sliding to his knees. More licking and sucking. "All mine. God, you taste incredible!"

Mycroft gasps as the bridge of his nose brushes his inner thigh, then Gregory latches onto the spot with his mouth and sucks fiercely. Almost more erotic than the intense suction on such a sensitive piece of skin is the loud satisfied "Mmm" his mate makes. 

Greg's head sings. My shakes and hangs on to the kitchen table with white knuckles as he continues feast on his flesh. Underneath the crisp suits and austerity, he's long pale limbs and soft, soft skin. So soft, every bit of him - and sweet, too. Greg has always been one of those people who eats the cake for the frosting, and My smells like vanilla, tastes like the sweetest, richest buttercream. 

Until their separation while he was at Baskerville, he'd never noticed how much he loved it. He and My have always used their bodies to talk to each other, but he hadn't realized how much he truly craved it until he was forced away from him. 

Above him, Mycroft is turning scarlet in the face from both the amazingly arousing way Gregory is touching him and from a thread of embarrassment. All the things he hates most about himself - this damnably, relentlessly flabby body, the ever-present stomach fat, the extra inches in the arse and thighs - are now becoming Gregory's whole center of focus. He sucks purple love bites across his abdomen, leaves nail-marks from gripping and kneading his arse, and coats his ribs and thighs in a shining layer of saliva from his eager licking. 

Gregory makes an utterly pornographic noise of pleasure and he can't help the choked sound that comes out of his mouth. The barrier in their minds blurs. Mycroft discovers through the glimmering fog of Gregory's own arousal that his soulmate could happily pursue this particular activity until one or both of them come. Gregory is so turned on even his scalp is aching.  _My. Mine. My. He tastes gorgeous. Need more of My. Mine._ _  
_

He can't. He can't breathe, can't think, can hardly stand. 

And then Gregory bites down into one of his love handles (stupid, cruel name), gives another filthy "Mmm" and it shouldn't, it shouldn't feel this good. Face flushed red and turned up to the venetian ceiling, he sobs and without any conscious thought, gasps out "I love you."

Pause. 

It isn't as if they were unaware that the sentiment existed between them. They are soulmates, after all. But it was always something that remained unspoken. A silent understanding they never need to approach.

Gregory slides his tongue over his body, leaving a trail of liquid fire, until he can nuzzle past the base of his cock. His clever, clever Gregory gently takes his balls into his mouth and groans "Mmm"

"You-" He knows how destroyed his voice is, doesn't even know why he's attempting speech at all at this point. "I can't-"

He likes My this way. He doesn't try to maintain the cool facade around him and the endless circumnavigation of real sentiment is shut down. And he tastes bloody fantastic. Just one more thing he wants...

My actually screams when he swallows down the head of his cock, moaning around the salty vanilla scented taste as his nose touches his pubic bone. Greg clutches the lovely curves of that wonderfully rounded arse and uses it to press Mycroft's prick farther down his throat, shuddering in pleasure at his success and the helpless way he has his aloof mate caught inside him, caught in his own lust.

"I'm- I'm going to-" My whimpers, one hand clutching his shoulder and the other holding onto the edge of the table for dear life. 

 _God, yes!_ he deliberately lets the thought flow through them.  _I want more of you. Give it to me. I can feel how close you are, how much you want to._

With soft, strangled cries, he finds himself releasing into his mate's mouth, fingers stroking over silver hair.

Greg swallows greedily, licks his lips, and holds My's hips until he's sure he can stand up on his own again. Trying and failing for a dignified air, My says "I can...if you want..."

Greg spreads his knees apart, revealing the puddle of come on the kitchen flood and his slowly softening cock. "No, love. You pretty much already took care of that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly meant to do something else with this chapter, but Mystrade came along and smashed my plan to bits. Zero people are surprised by this. Apparently Mystrade now owns my head. Then again, they ARE the British government. Wrote this listening to the Project X remix of "Heads Will Roll" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
> 
> This somehow turned into like...body worship and a tiny amount of belly kink if you squint? Like...I swear I have no idea how this happened.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, angst, angst. Beware, my children: shit is about to get real. Contact with a ceiling fan may be imminent. Mystrade are BAMF to their cores, Sherlock is a blushing virgin (in the literal sense, and John is going to be so, so angry.

When they come home from Baskerville, Sherlock is happy. John forgave him for trying to drug his coffee, and Lestrade was with them, getting amusingly irritated with the locals. 

He sets a steaming mug next to John's elbow and yanks his coat on, making shooing motions as he goes for his shoes. "Hurry - Anderson is likely mixing up evidence and destroying my crime scene as we speak."

John glances into the mug in question. "Not drugged, is it?" 

From anyone else, that would be a hurtful statement of mistrust, yet another sign that he is not normal, does not fit in. But the edge of John's mouth quirks up and his eyes are laughing. "Not this time. Let me know before you have to go to the surgery - I'm sure I could come up with something that would make your day at work more tolerable. Or more interesting, at the very least," he says, with upturned lips himself. 

John takes a sip, golden eyelashes lowered over storm - blue eyes and makes a sound of pleasure. "It's very good," he says, taking another swallow and getting up to fetch his own coat. "And made the way I like it this time. Thank you."

Sherlock turns his head because he can feel himself flushing. How pathetic is he that even simple gratitude from John makes him feel as though his skin has grown too small to fit him?

John can see the blush suffusing those utterly ridiculous cheekbones and finds himself touching his friend's shoulder. He needs...needs to touch him, to be near him suddenly and that instinct overrides his good sense for a moment. He clears his throat. "You shouldn't tempt me," he says, looking into Sherlock's beautifully clear, sharp eyes. "I might take you up on that offer to make the surgery more interesting."

"I'll get us a cab." Is all Sherlock can manage to choke out. 

= = = = =

"Sherlock, you big-headed git," Lestrade curses scrambling after his brother in law through dark tangled alleyways. "If the suspect shoots you, I am going to spend Christmas dinner getting Mycroft to tell John every fucking ludicrous story about your childhood he can think of, you dick."

"I don't believe Mr Holmes is the man in danger of getting shot tonight, Detective Inspector," a low voice behind him says.

Greg turns slowly and finds himself staring down the barrel of a pistol and looking into a grim smile. That smile... Mycroft curls around his thoughts briefly. His eyes narrow and Greg's smile is just as grim, and carries a coldness worthy of the Iceman himself. "We know who you are." 

The man aiming the gun at him raises his eyebrow. "'We?' He told me that would be creepy. I didn't believe him then, but now I think I'm starting to get it."

Now facing his aggressor head on and unflinching at the gun, Greg says "I assume that your boss man is currently with Sherlock."

"That's a safe assumption. Jim likes to have his own way. Always has."

"What makes you think we're going to stand around and let James Moriarty have anything?"

Sebastian Moran's smile widens. "Because if Sherlock's big brother doesn't mind his own business, I am going to shoot his detective through the eyeball."

= = = = =

"We're gaining on him, John!" Sherlock huffs racing down to the bottom of a rusting fire escape. "You-"

The words flee his tongue. "Evening, Sherlock. Bit of a turn up, isn't it?"

His stomach feels like it's dying. "You're dead," he says dumbly.

"Obviously not, Sherlock." Moriarty says, grinning as he steps right inside his personal space. "Did you miss me? It must be so dull with only idiots to talk to."

He steps closer, and Sherlock's whole being crawls at his nearness, but at the moment, none of his limbs seem connected with his nerve endings. He is floating, disconnected from everything. 

Cold hands caress his face, stroking his cheek. "Now what is our pretty virgin doing out here all by himself?" Down his spine and he knows that they are going to go lower. " _Anything_ could happen to you, you know."

Oh god. Oh god.

He feels sick, his stomach clenching with the urgent need to dry heave. Sherlock is drowning beneath cold water, beneath the frozen touch of Moriarty's fingertips.

From the corner of his eye, he sees movement, and John's eyes are black, dilated with rage and the gun gleams dully in the moonlight. Moriarty shoves him in the way as the shot rings out.

He feels the gentle spatter of blood across his Belstaff, and as he flees down the alley with a high-pitched giggle, Moriarty is clutching his right shoulder.

= = = = =

Greg's eyes flicker back and forth, first dark and then sky blue. When he speaks, there are two voices coming from his one mouth, harsh and fierce as Greg himself is, but cuttingly precise too. "You are an idiot. We will never live beyond a few days without each other and we have both dedicated ourselves to civil service. Do you think this has never come up between us? Shoot us, Colonel."

"Come on, Iceman." Moran clicks his tongue. "What if I shot him in the gut? Those are painful, you know. He might still die, and it would take ages. You can't honestly say that you wouldn't care if your soulmate suffers."

"Moriarty didn't do his research very well this time. You don't seem to understand us well, do you? We don't like to lose our endgame." Greg's face still shows no hint of fear.

" You won't lose - as long as you do what he wants."

The blue in his eyes flashes like lighting. "You're assuming that our endgame is to keep each other safe. This is not the case. And if it was, losing is still preferable to letting James Moriarty put his hands on our little brother. Shoot us," they repeat calmly. 

The moment the word leaves his lips, a shot echoes out into the night. Greg's lips twist oddly reminiscent of Mycroft trying to hide his amusement. Across town, Mycroft gazes at his CCTV cameras with satisfaction. "You might want to check in with your handler."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this listening to "Violet Hill" by Coldplay.


	16. Chapter 16

Lestrade is tempted to bring Mycroft into this conversation, despite the eye color change making his presence instantly obvious even to John. Because someone has to explain the situation in front of him. The only thing preventing him from doing so is the knowledge that his mate is undoubtedly tracking down that pile of shit known as James Moriarty, and he absolutely does not want to distract him from that.

When talking about Moriarty, Sherlock should be pacing and foaming at the mouth, gesturing with his hands and talking at a pace faster than any normal human being could possibly comprehend, never mind actually utter syllables. In the background, John would normally be stone-faced, rigid, and pale with fury. That is not quite true now. Sherlock was reciting facts in his usual cold, disinterested fashion, but he was standing with an almost statuesque stillness and his face was locked in a look of dispassionate observation. Which, granted, was actually Sherlock's default facial form. The problem was that tonight, the expression seems frozen into its proper place, rather than naturally settling there. John, in the meantime, had his eyes locked on the back of Sherlock's curly head and was examining him with the kind of fierce, obsessive concentration that his flatmate would normally reserve for crime scenes. It was obvious that they were both trying to ignore what had happened to Sherlock.

"...And that's when John shot him." Sherlock concludes flatly.

Lestrade turned to John, who now looked angry and uncomfortable. "How badly did you hit him? "

"He was using Sherlock as a shield," he says lowly. "So the bullet only grazed him. I think Moriarty was surprised that I had the daring to pull the trigger, quite honestly."

Tensions shimmer between the partners like visible heat waves. _Come to think of it, I'm surprised John pulled the trigger myself._

With their statements both taken, he has no choice but to release the pair of them. 

Sherlock and John get into the cab in anxious silence. 

Neither of them dare to speak of the event thus far and since Sherlock had failed to describe it in his report to Lestrade, John also avoided referring to it. Now that they were alone and the blind rage had left him, he thought he might be able to discuss this without being irrational. 

 _Especially since he's not handling this as well as he thinks he is._ "I didn't mean to shoot him," he says, then winces. "What I mean is, it wasn't a conscious decision. I would never have risked your life just to get a shot at him."

 _But Moriarty put his hands all over you. And you never moved to stop him. At first, I was so angry, I couldn't even see straight._ Those slimy, white-collar criminal hands sliding down Sherlock's arse, cupping him through his trousers and caressing his face like a lover would. And Sherlock stood there, arms hung down at his sides, hands slack.

 _Then, I stepped to the side and the look of terrified horror was so real in your eyes when he touched you again that I pulled the gun out of my jacket without even a second thought._ His friend's face, as frozen as it was now, but not into the mask of indifference. Frozen into a fear so acute, so present and so raw that all rational thought was wiped from his brain and when Moriarty realized he was there and tried to push Sherlock in front of him, John had shot him in the shoulder with his best friend in the line of fire. 

"You didn't miss, so I don't see the issue," Sherlock says coolly. 

"I still shouldn't have pulled a gun on him when you were there to be his human shield." And now Sherlock would not release that stupid facade of cool control. "D'you want a takeaway when we get in?" He asks softly, allowing a change of subjects. He has been pushed enough for one night. 

"No, I'm not hungry," Sherlock says airly, exiting the cab as they pulled up to Baker Street, leaving John to pay the cabbie. 

"You should rest, it's nearly midnight," he tries to suggest, but the taller man seems to ignore him, taking the stairs up to the flat three at a time. 

"Not tired, John. I might have a shower," Sherlock says distractedly, flinging the flat door open and wandering into the kitchen to check on his experiments in the fridge. 

"Tea?" John says hopefully, needing to see him eat or drink something. The only reply he got was a hum - neither argument nor ascent. John sighs as Sherlock drifts into the sitting room with John's laptop in his hands and turns to put the kettle on.

Keys click as he opens cupboards looking for the cups and Sherlock's favorite biscuits. The kettle whistles and John pours the water, idly placing the biscuits in the saucer before going to him in the sitting room. His laptop sits in Sherlock's lap, but his pale eyes are on the violin in the corner. In any other person, John would say he looks on it almost longingly. But Sherlock is not the kind of man who denies himself anything, no matter how trivial. If he wanted to play, there was no reason he wouldn't. The fact that it was midnight meant nothing to him.  _There is something wrong, he just isn't going to talk about._

He was more sure than ever when he tried to hand him the saucer. Their fingers brush and Sherlock goes still in the chair, his eyes passing slowly over John's face - almost as if he was seeing him for the first time. John had not missed that he had avoided paying the cab driver and had backed away from him when he tried to check him for injuries after the run in with Moriarty. In the cab, there was enough room for two other people on the seat between them. John forces his face to remain composed even as his heart began to his shoes.  _So. He's scared of even me. Maybe especially of me. He knows that I saw, that I recognized his fear. And I nearly shot him, for Christ sake._

Gently, John's other hand cups his, steadying the ceramic before letting go and turning to walk back to the kitchen. He did not miss the small twitch in his friend's fingers when his hands had covered his. Sherlock didn't care for being touched before either, but that was mere indifference. This...was fear. True fear.

John elects to sit on the sofa, as far away from the other man as he could be to allow him some space. When Sherlock wanders into the shower, he glances over at the saucer, precariously balanced on the arm of the chair. He hadn't touched a single biscuit and the tea was more than half-full. John sighs and rubs his eyelids. He needs to get him to talk about this. He just didn't know how to do that without making it worse. 

Not when it was so obvious he can hardly stand to be in the same room with him, whether Sherlock will admit to it or not. 

Slowly,  John lets out another long sigh. He spends all his time with an emotionally retarded man-child who gets his way in pretty much everything because he has the mind of a computer, the heart of a sociopath, and the face of a renaissance angel. 

And John is never going to leave him, because he loves this strangely fragile madman with everything in him. 

=====

Sherlock did not pay any more attention than usual to his shower routine that night, even if the repulsive feeling of having Moriarty's hands wandering all over him lingered on with vulgar tenacity. 

For the first time in his life, he had been paralyzed with fear.

James Moriarty had whispered in his ear. Had touched him.

His face. His chest. His backside. 

And he'd done these things...as if he owned him.

As if he were a toy Moriarty could take out and play with any time he pleased. 

Sherlock looks down at the mark on his shoulder, red as blood. His right shoulder. Where John shot Moriarty. 

He finds himself to numb to feel the reality of his own fear of that thought.

John...

He bends his head beneath the spray of the water, feeling something like shame sweep over him.

John had seen. John had watched Moriarty whispering to him and groping him. John had shot him for it and Moriarty had stumbled away  _laughing._

Being next to John in the cab was unbearable. Sherlock didn't...want to feel the crawling nauseous sensation again. Didn't want to feel the pressure of another person's bare skin against his. He felt ill, tired, disgusted...dirty. Which was why he couldn't play the violin. John would know,  would hear it in the notes his hands would play. 

Which was why the tea incident was so perplexing to him. 

Just a brush of those calloused hands on his knuckles made shivers swirl down his abdominal region. 

His aversion to touch had now become his greatest weakness, because Moriarty had exploited it and turned it into something that made Sherlock feel like he was drowning in oil.

But not with John.

What John still made him feel was dizzying, alien, wonderful. 

And after knowing the difference, Sherlock really wanted to feel it again. 

His eyes drift to his empty bed, then away. Back and away. Back and away. 

The shadows in his room swirled like soup and the room smells of himself and is not at all friendly. 

When John goes to bed, he flees for the safety of the sitting room. 

= = = = =

John wakes in the night with images of Sherlock bleeding all over the alley, Jim Moriarty laughing with glee as the shot from his gun hits Sherlock right in the chest. Cursing the soreness in his injured shoulder that comes from lying unmoved in the past three hours, John forces himself up from the bed and stumbles down into the kitchen, his hand automatically reaching for the kettle. As he turns on the faucet, he realizes that there is a figure sitting in his armchair by the fire. No. Not sitting.

Sleeping. 

Sherlock is curled up in his seat like a cat, head slumped against the armrest and...

...and wearing John's coat. 

He shakes his head as he stares down at this amazing and strange creature who has captured him forever. His hands hover just a moment, above his hair.

John wants to stroke those dark, wild curls. Wants to lean over and wrap Sherlock in his arms. Hide him from Moriarty, from the hold world, just with his embrace. 

But Sherlock would not welcome that, and even so, John has no wish to wake him. 

His hands bunch in into fists.

John walks silently back to the kitchen, to put the kettle on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, the good news is I have a plan. The bad news is that don't know how long it will take.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tissues! Get your kleenex here! Ladies and gentlemen, you do not want to proceed without your tissues. 
> 
> Warning: I totally almost cried like 3 times writing this. 
> 
> I am not generally a crier.

Sherlock finds himself curling up in John's sheets after he leaves for the surgery, breathing in the scent of Earl Grey, gun oil, and male sweat. It was the only place where the anxious knot in his stomach was smaller than a grapefruit. 

It wasn't his fault, Mycroft mused, watching the cameras trained on 221b. 

Mycroft himself would never have credited how...attached he was to Gregory. The books could describe the mental connection and even the emotional connection. They could never define the intensity of the physical awareness. 

What Sherlock currently did not understand was that your soulmate is hardwired into each and every one of your senses. Smell being one of them. They, as he rapidly found out about Gregory, were designed and created to entice you, right down to the molecular level. 

His instinct were trying to tell him to reestablish his place at John's side. 

But how do you reestablish something that was never properly built to begin with? 

=====

This was...not going well. 

 _My what an understatement,_ John thought to himself dryly, noting that his mental voice sounded a great deal like Sherlock. 

God, he was trying - and Sherlock was clearly trying as well. But this was simply unacceptable. He had to say 'unacceptable' , because any alternative was too painful to contemplate. For days it had been bad enough, Sherlock's eyes following him intently whenever John was in the room, pale eyes flickering all over his face, hands twitching anytime they drew near each other.

John had been careful not to actually touch the younger man, but today it had been unavoidable. What the hell had that bloody idiot been thinking, racing across the icy and ruined bridge planks, nearly plunging into the frozen water?

As instinctive as firing the gun, John had wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body and yanked him away from the crumbling rail. And he stood there, feeling his heart thunder away from him. He'd nearly screamed at him -  _"I almost lost you, you impossible git!"_ \- but then he'd felt Sherlock trembling all around him. Shaking. Just as the realization came over him, he also realized what position he'd put them in. 

He was pressed to Sherlock's back from head to toe and had both arms wound tightly around his body, pressing the other man's arms to his sides. Even if Sherlock wanted to, he wouldn't have the flexibility in his arms to break that hold and John, to his further shame, was using force. He was helpless and pinned by a man with military experience and he stood there, frozen and shaking with fear.  _Oh god, what have I done?_

Quickly letting him go, John had quietly apologized and sat as far as he could from him on the ride back to Baker Street. They were both silent during the trip. 

 _Is he disgusted by me?_ Sherlock wondered.  _Has he realized that he shot Moriarty in the same place my Crowning crest is? Does he find me repulsive, now that I belong to-to..._

God, he couldn't even think it, never mind truly contemplate.

John was not his mate, but he'd felt...special to him. 

And those arms.

Those warm, strong arms had clamped around him as he skidded across the rotting board, grabbed him and hauled him up and just held him there. John held him with an iron - tight grip, warm breaths ghosting just between his shoulder blades.

Oh, the  _strength_ of him. The power. 

The casual observer would not know by John's unassuming wardrobe and easy charm how powerful he was. Sherlock himself had not actually guessed it until describing a shooter when he'd caught sight of his face. 

John did not just hold him there, but held him up, knees slightly bent and chest pressed into his back, heaving great breaths tinged with fear. He trapped Sherlock in a cage of warm steel arms, rushing blood, iron bones, and beating heart. Which was probably why he did not feel caged at all. Instead he felt lifted. Protected. Safe.

It was at that moment that Sherlock comprehended the full extent of his feelings for John Watson and a wave of fear, love, and unrepentant lust made a shudder rock down his spine. 

It was fortunate John's grip was so restrictive, because the first instinct of his body was to grind his hips back into John's groin. Just as that thought occurred to him, his warm cage slipped away as quickly as it came, his protector walking away with his eyes down and his expression guarded off. "I'm sorry," he'd murmured, backing off.

John on the other hand, pressed himself into the far side of the cab, his crest burning and his stomach aching in sympathy for his friend. He hadn't known what they would do, before this moment, but now it was painfully obvious. 

He was going to move out of Baker Street. 

Because there was nothing that could convince him to leave Sherlock's side, except Sherlock himself. The man wouldn't tell him to go, but John no longer saw any way he could possibly stay. He'd known Sherlock would probably be adverse to being grabbed, even by someone who was trying to save his life, but the man had been paralyzed and trembling in fear. 

Fear of John. The very idea makes his heart ache. 

He knew Sherlock did not like to acknowledge fear, but he couldn't stand to remain here, knowing that a part of him - and it was clearly not a very small part - was afraid of him. He would not subject his dearest friend to that kind of terror, would not force him to endure that kind of pain. 

Keeping his voice soft and glancing at his detective through the glass, John says "I'll move out as soon as I can find another place. Mrs Hudson might let me have the basement for a song, since it's so hard to rent out."

Sherlock's face spasms and then an unusually harsh expression settled over his features. "Fine," he says coolly. "I'd prefer if you were gone within the week."

John flinches, as much at his tone as at his words, but nods anyway. It seemed their cards are all out on the table, then. He'd figured as much, once they got to the subject. John could not say that he was surprised, not really, but he had hoped that they would still be friends, still be...

He understood, he was the one who began making this painful decision in the first place. It still hurt. "I'll stay with Harry until then, shall I?"

"Do as you please." Sherlock says dismissively. 

With a resigned sigh, John directs the cabbie to another address. 

Sherlock is both very glad and bitterly disappointed that John did not come with him. Bitterly disappointed because it makes their separation seem more...final to him. 

But incredibly glad, because he can't hold back the low, broken sound that escapes him once the door is closed and he stood alone in the sitting room. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm beginning to understand how wendymarlow felt writing "Dear John". My inbox is full of comments that basically amount to "dear god, why???!!!!!!!". Updating is slow - real life has intervened. I work in deli at a grocery store and the spring-summer season is INTENSE (and I'm sort of the department bitch - any time someone needs help, guess who they call) so updates are going to be less frequent, but I will try to make them a little longer. As I write this, I'm actually coming off of going in to work for the past nine days. Note to self: don't ever fucking do that.
> 
> Chapter warnings: drama, angst, Sherlock is a sad gay baby, John is an angry little gay man, their love is beautiful, attempted assault, violence, Mystrade being their BAMFy selves, Mormor, y'all may have a heart attack...
> 
> I know the wait has been long for you guys, but I promise, it's totally worth it! I've got pages upon pages of plans for the porn I will write when the big reveal finally comes.

Sherlock thought at first that he was perfectly all right. That after that initial burst of helpless, hopeless sorrow, he'd become used to the idea and let ice form over the gaping wound inside his heart where John should be. But it was only numbing the pain. When the post-case crash came and he was left hungry, exhausted, emotionally gutted and blindly trying anything to relieve these human needs. 

He ended up eating biscuits and a tin of cold beans, swigged down with a cup of John's ice-cold tea from this morning, and attempted to go to sleep. Except that his own bed had not seemed inviting in months. Everything was uncomfortable - the smell of the room, the way the bed faced away from the door, the looming shadows between the windows and the dresser. Though John never seemed to know it, Sherlock had been periodically retreating to sleep in his bed while he was at work at the surgery ever since the encounter last month. 

This was where he went now, stripping his clothes off as he climbs each step, until he is naked, and stands in the doorway, and this was how the breakdown began. 

The room...smells delightfully of John. The hospital corner bed and the neatly hung clothes in the wardrobe combine with that smell until John's presence is almost made physical inside this room. The incredible, crushing sense of loss hits him again and Sherlock realizes that something wet and hot is running down his face and his eyes just  _ache._ He falls, letting the bed catch his weight, burying his face in the sweet cool softness of John's pillow. He sobs, letting go of the tears that have been caught in the back of his throat and behind his eyelids for what feels like days...weeks...months...since the moment he met John.

It was always going to end this way. He was always going to make John leave.

Sherlock wraps his long arms around the pillow. The feel of the sheets - the sheets John once slept in - across his bare skin makes his flesh ache and itch with the longing that never seems to leave him, just ebbing and rising like the tide. He wants to be touched, kissed, _loved._   But any hope of that has walked away in an oatmeal-colored jumper.

He rubs his naked body against the sheets, buries his face into the pillow. This is close as he can get, as close as he'll ever be to having John make love to him and the longing is a physical pain now, so tight and deep inside he doesn't remember what it's like to live without the agony of its presence anymore. The scent in the bedclothes and the feel of cotton against Sherlock's skin makes him shiver and whimper and squeeze his eyes closed, fantasizing that John is just downstairs, preparing for bed, and that he'll walk into the room and smile and say-

"Hello, gorgeous."

~~~~~~

At 11 o’clock at night, John slowly climbs the steps up to the flat, giving himself enough time to run each scenario of how this may go about eight times before reaching the door at the top of the stairs. He might be worrying over nothing, after all. Sherlock may not even be home tonight. He really had meant to stay the night at Harry’s, honestly – he’d been there for less than an hour, but he’d certainly had the intention to stay. Right up until he’d told Harry that he was moving out and then had (in as little detail as possible) explained the situation. His sister had expressed a disturbing amount of glee about Sherlock’s obvious discomfort and that led into a fierce and very short argument that culminated in John storming back out to find another cab back to Baker Street.

Bloody. Fuck. When he unlocked the door, the sitting room was empty, so he slipped into the kitchen, which was also vacant. The door to Sherlock’s room was unopened.

Asleep? John wondered, deciding to creep up to his room unnoticed. It was bad enough that Sherlock wouldn’t know he’d come back – he wouldn’t surprise him in one of the common areas. As he slowly walked to his bedroom door - had he really left it open? Hm, he didn't recall unlocking it - he heard a sound from within. 

~~~~~~

He raises his head slowly from the cushion of the pillow, drawing the sheets tighter around his body as he lifts himself up. Sherlock's heart kicks into high gear and his breathing runs fast and shallow. "If it was so easy for you to come in, then why show up now?"

James Moriarty grins as he steps from the doorway, his right arm still in a sling from the gunshot wound in his shoulder. "I was waiting for that tiresome little bulldog that slobbers all over you to leave."

The sentence clicks on something in Sherlock's brain. "John. You wanted him to leave..." His pale eyes narrow. "You've been trying to create the rift between us."

"Yes," Moriarty agrees. "I tried with Irene, but neither of you took the bait the way I wanted you to. But he's awfully possessive, your doctor. I imagine he didn't take it well, realizing he was the one to give you that mark that made you mine."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock intends for his voice to sound cold and imperious, but his words shake. He's spent weeks dreading this very confrontation.

In the darkness, Jim's hand also shakes with a greedy, possessive desire, his free hand reach out to touch Sherlock's right shoulder. His eyes are black and frightening by the light of the street lamp and his voice is a hoarse moan "I want to see it now, Sherlock. Be a good boy and show daddy who you belong to." 

Sherlock twitches away, pressing his shoulder blades to the wall behind him, trapped like an animal. Jim is injured, but he is also insane and he wants only one thing, and truthfully, Sherlock has given up the will to fight. He gave up the moment John told him he was moving out. Their wrestling match upon the bed in brief and violent. Blood trickles down Moriarty's arm from the bullet wound as he holds the squirming detective to the mattress and tears the sheet away from his right shoulder.

Moriarty's eyes go wide at the sight and the fury that crosses over his face is utterly terrifying. 

~~~~~~

John breathes quietly, intensely, frozen in rage and jealously when he sees Moriarty pinning Sherlock to the bed, ripping the sheet away from his chest. The consulting criminal face goes pale with anger. In the dark, the crest was a dark red, blood-colored stain gracing the pale flesh and then Moriarty shrieks "Glory?! GLORY?! You were supposed to be MINE!"

And Jim does not realize that he is going to do something unforgivable because John did not know it was unforgivable until that moment. Did not know until then that Moriarty was attempting to claim someone that didn't belong to him. With his left hand - his stronger, dominant hand, Moriarty pulls back and strikes Sherlock across the face, catching him directly on one of those beautiful cheekbones and lashing with the hand so hard that Sherlock's head is forced to the side and blood fills his mouth as his own teeth cut the inside of his cheek and his lip splits open. 

Something inside John breaks, tears through.

Lunging forward out of the shadows, strong and beautiful and dangerous like the lion across Sherlock Holmes's shoulder, John Watson catches Moriarty around the waist, hauls him off his poor bleeding mate, grabs his head and chin and gives a vicious twist.

With a sickening crunch, the body drops to floor like a rag doll.

Saying he felt anything but satisfaction would be an outright lie. 

Sherlock stares back at him in shock, pale eyes wide and gleaming in the dark. Naked in his bed, with only his lower half covered in a sheet, wide-eyed and lips parted, he is the most sultry and enticing thing John has ever seen, even with the ugly bruise beginning to form over his right cheek and blood trickling down his chin from the split lip. 

Softly, John says "Let's get some ice on that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY KUDOS BATMAN! I literally hyperventilate when I see the kudos, comments, and bookmarks on this story. I did not ever in a million years expect this level of attention for "His King". I will be the first to say that this story is not ace prose or even a particularly original plot, but I am immensely flattered that so many people enjoy it. I clearly did not even know what the fuck is was doing, so...Thank you!
> 
> In other news, I've had so much fun playing around in Sherlockland that I actually have a couple different projects lined up when "King" is finished, and I would love to hear your opinions on what you'd like to see next (naturally my preference is Johnlock, I think that pretty much goes without saying). The first is involves a dimension-hopping Alice-in-Wonderland-esque adventure assisted by Moriarty's 'key'. The second is a tale of Papa!Lestrade, who fights tooth and nail to turn his foster son Sherlock into a man he'd be proud of turning into. And the third is a really emotional crossover with another show I adore - Bones! (oh, the clash of the titans! Ex-army doctor versus ex-army sniper?). Tell me in your comments which of these interests you guys the most - I can't wait to get started!


	19. Chapter 19

"Let's get some ice on that."

Sherlock quickly yanks the covers up to conceal his nudity. It's a testament to his emotional state that he doesn't realize John is not asking what he was doing in his bedroom...in his bed...without any clothes. And John won't ever ask, because now he understands. It's the same reason John no longer bothers to purchase a different shampoo for himself, letting himself be intoxicated with periodic whiffs of Sherlock's scent throughout the day.

It's another testament to Sherlock's emotional state that he doesn't realize that John now has a secret he is desperate to share...when the moment is right. Which definitely not when there is a dead body on the floor and Sherlock is wearing nothing but a sheet. Well. Maybe that second one can stay. 

The dead body on the other hand is absolutely non-negotiable.

"I should call Mycroft," Sherlock says, feeling the flush rise in his face. John had barely glanced at him, turning his eyes away from his naked figure. He himself is half-hard just from the feel of those deep storm-blue eyes over him, his body burning with the desire to sprawl out on the bed, spreading the way a vine would grow taller to be nearer to the sun, and John is unconcerned, unaffected...

...But at least he knows he never belonged with Moriarty. 

John follows a few steps behind as he flees the room for a clean suit and his mobile. 

John, meanwhile, is trying to hide the excitement making his fingertips tingle with an electric energy that seems directly tied to the miles of creamy skin in front of him. God, god, Sherlock belongs to him, with him, is marked forever, wearing his identity across his shoulder, just as John wears his...oh. 

Oh no.

The ache that has set his guts on fire for the majority of his life, the empty, crushing loneliness that makes even his teeth hurt, all of that...was Sherlock.

John resists the urge to the drop the makeshift ice-pack in his hands and crash his way into that bedroom, caress every inch of skin and just whisper "I love you, I love you, I love you," over and over again, until the words become of a part of Sherlock's very marrow and he could never doubt its truth.

Except that Sherlock would likely think that he was a bloody lunatic.

Yeah, that might require some lead-up.

~~~~~~~

Standing in front of 221B with a panda car parked outside the door, Lestrade's eyes flashed brilliant blue like lightning strikes, his voice occasionally carrying a second liquid-smooth tenor on its edges as Mycroft joined in on the conversation while Lestrade took their statements about the body in the upstairs bedroom. "The clean-up crew should be coming any moment to take care of the mess. It will take all night, but luckily not the rest of the week, John's efficient use of force." Greg paused, tilting his head, eyes brightening and voice dropping off its Essex-flavored speech patterns. "You are welcome to stay at the house on Upper Belgrave for tonight, gentlemen. Gregory and I will see you in the morning." 

"Thanks," John interjected, before Sherlock could remove the ice-pack from his face to snarl something insulting at his brother that would cause him to redact his invitation. Frankly, he found it amazing that Sherlock could even open his jaw and move his mouth at this point, the right side of his face was so bruised and swollen. He was trying not to remember the sound of the back of Jim Moriarty's hand cracking across Sherlock's face, the little involuntary cry of pain as his head was wrenched to the other side. Remembering made him want to charge back up the steps and mutilate the body still laying on his carpet. 

Greg's eyes were a deep, warm brown again. "Try to get some rest, we'll talk again tomorrow."

As the sleek black town car pulls up, Gregory's eyes flicker again.  _Why did you offer to let them stay with us? Not that I'm not happy to have them over, but I can tell you have a reason._

_They need to stay together. They cannot let themselves drift any longer._

_What makes you so certain it will happen tonight?_

_Oh, Gregory. Because now John_ knows.

~~~~~~~

His head was aching.

Sherlock really had tried going to sleep. But his head was pulsing with pain, his mouth tasted like blood, and he right eye was so swollen he could hardly open it now. 

He realized, shifting over, that John was resting on the other side of the bed, and his shifting had apparently woken him, because his eyes were open. His eyes are dim and his voice hoarse with sleep "Are you alright?" 

"Sore," Sherlock whispers, curling himself into a tight ball on his side of the bed and closing his eyes. His shoulders curl up near his ears, not wanting to risk doing something that makes John go away.

To his amazement, John does not offer apologies, or get up and fetch him some paracetamol. Sherlock feels the mattress dipping as John moves closer, and then a gentle hand begins moving through his curls and stroking his face, softly moving over the bruises and swollen skin. 

It was a long shot - a very long shot - but John felt compelled to try, regardless.

If soulmates had a very strong connection - a connection so strong that it only came about once every three hundred years or so - their touch could heal each other.

He knew it wasn't terribly likely - he and Sherlock aren't evenly properly bound, the cognitive connections are only made on his own end. But John couldn't just leave him here to suffer this way. 

At the first caress, Sherlock lets out a sigh of what sounds like relief and scoots the smallest bit closer.

It's dark, but John thinks he can feel the swelling go down.  _It's working. Christ, it's actually working!_

The longing to care for a mate in need calls to him, and John wraps an arm around him, still giving in to his urge to touch and comfort Sherlock, who makes a small sound that speeds up his heart rate and buries his nose in John's collar. His eyes are heavy, lids dropping down and he begins breathing deeply, hot air fanning over John's chest and sending chills up his spine.

"Does it still hurt?" he murmurs, petting the silky curls, gently tracing the soft, delicious shell of his upper ear.

"Hm? No," Sherlock rumbles, large hands resting in the small of John's back. He nuzzles at John's shirt in a comfortable haze, eliciting a gasp. 

"Are you falling asleep?" John whispers, cupping the back of his skull so carefully, holding the very central part of the most beloved person he will ever know.

"Mmmmno," he sighs, going boneless against John's chest as he finally loses consciousness.

John kisses the dark, sweeping brow-line. He words are witnessed only by the dark. "Sleep well, love. Glory. My Glory."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papa!Lestrade and Bones!lock are tied! Keep voting! I'd love to know what you guys want to see next! 
> 
> Wrote this listening "She-Wolf (Falling To Pieces)" by David Guetta ft. Sia.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter practically wrote itself, tbh.

The bed is empty when Sherlock is finally ready to awaken, his eyes gritty from sleep. He rolls over and snuffles into the space beside him where John had been laying.

Last night had been incredible. Those hands - soft, sure, strong hands - holding him and caressing him. Frowning, he touched his face. It was almost as though the injury had never been there. 

"Get dressed, brother mine," a familiar voice called from outside the bedroom door. "Come and eat breakfast before it's time for lunch. I believe John would like to go back to Baker Street in short order."

 _Small wonder,_ Mycroft thinks, backing away from the bedroom door.  _Since I imagine the moment he gets him back to Baker Street, he'll be preoccupied with tearing all of Sherlock's clothes off._

~~~~~~~

For once, Mycroft Holmes was not right about something.

Breakfast had been agony for John, who was barely managing to conceal his impatience to get away from Belgravia and back to Westminster, despite Mycroft and Greg's hospitality. He was desperate to get Sherlock back to Baker Street, to tell him what he knew. And he was certainly hoping that clothing removal would soon follow. 

The problem was that he realized as he walked into the door that he didn't have the slightest idea of how he would begin this conversation. 

Sherlock retreated to the laptop and John went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and plan out a strategy for his grand entrance into this conversation.

"Hey, Sherlock, guess what-?"

A bit casual, that.

"Funny story-"

God, no, Sherlock would shut that shit down before he'd finished the sentence. 

"We need to talk."

John cringed. That sounded like they were breaking up, much like the talk they'd had in the cab last night, which...yeah. Oh, Christ.

Sherlock had been cold, and angry.

Which...in Sherlockian, obviously fr

meant that he'd actually been...hurt.

John...John really had sounded like a man trying to let their date down gently. Promising that they could still be friends. John glanced over at the pale figure typing away in the blue-white light of a computer screen, bathing his face in the eerie glow, lending his features an ethereal quality that sent the blood rushing to John's cock so quickly that he had to turn away, bend from the waist and breathe through his nose to keep himself from passing out.

He couldn't be friends with Sherlock. He'd never been friends with Sherlock - this whole time he'd just been trying to fool himself into believing it was true. But he couldn't stand to stare at the perfect swell of that plush arse, the exposed, vulnerable hollow between collarbones, that sweet luscious mouth...and not imagine himself having a taste of any of it. Giving up on trying to control his prick, which is now giving an excellent impression of a steel pole, he gently sets a cup beside Sherlock's hand and as he turns to go back to the sofa for the evening paper, he watches Sherlock's eyes catch on the crotch of his jeans. Which now looks like John is trying to smuggle a boa constrictor inside his pants.

His mate gives a full-body shudder, quickly turning his eyes away. John glances up at Sherlock's face. A full, beautiful flush is taking over his lovely cheekbones, and John wants to fucking eat him, he looks so delicious. 

_...feel like? Warm, so warm, and his smell - oh god, John! I need to feel you!_

John blinks, feeling another hot, thick pulse of lust going through his body. That...was Sherlock's voice. He was hearing Sherlock's voice. But his lips weren't moving.

_Jesus, it's true! Last night I healed his face and now I'm hearing his thoughts._

_...-ting aroused. Shit. I can't let him see. What if he walks out again?_

John glanced at Sherlock's lap. His tailoring didn't allow for much in the way of room inside his trousers and there was a definite bulge inside his trousers, and again, John's first thought was: delicious. What made Sherlock think he would walk out if he knew Sherlock was aroused by him? That little shiver of his alone was sexy enough to make him fantasize about what it'd felt like with their bodies pressed together, like that time...at the bridge...

Oh.

Shit. 

That very same sexy little shiver of arousal was the same shudder that wracked over Sherlock at the bridge. He'd been so sure it was fear at the time, but then Sherlock had seemed hurt and confused when he'd offered to leave 221B.

"I'm sorry," he says huskily, making Sherlock lift his head.

"Not that I'm not sure you've done something wrong, but please be more specific," came the reply. The hungry timbre of John's voice keeps the flush in his face burning bright.

 _God, such gorgeous lips, and his tongue is like a needle behind it. That vicious, tart mouth. I know just what I want to do with it. Make you sigh so pretty, love._ John leans forward, until their faces are nearly touching, watching Sherlock's pupils dilating lazily. "I didn't understand what you wanted, before." 

"What I wanted?" Sherlock whispers, unconsciously leaning forward, tilting his mouth at just the right angle to be taken, tasted, fucking  _savored._ It was remarkably similar to the way he moved at Angelo's the first night John came to Baker Street. Every movement had telegraphed 'fuck me, I want you, I'm yours'. 

Because Sherlock wasn't a tease or a flirt - he had been subconsciously trying to signal his soulmate that he needed to have him. 

Their first kiss could have revived the dead, it was so heart-poundingly, blood - scorchingly hot.

John leans that extra inch closer, sliding an eager hand through the curls as Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise, and presses his lips lightly to the mouth he's been fantasizing about for months. The small whine from Sherlock's throat unravels some of his self-control and he nips gently on the full lower lip, again and again,  taking small sips when he really wants to devour him whole. Until Sherlock whines again and flicks his tongue out, tangling with John's before shyly backing off. 

"Oh, no," John murmurs, brushing his thumb over a pink, swollen mouth. It was even more decadent than it looked. Sherlock's eyes were the color of the sea, and glazed over. "You can't expect me to be satisfied with only one taste."

Sherlock's hips jerk, heart-shaped mouth parting invitingly, and a needy sound edges his next breath.

"Glorious," John breathes. 

"You think I am-"

"Glory," he agrees in a whisper. "Divine and perfect. My Glory."

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath. "Let me see."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is G's birthday! That being said, the only proper way for me to celebrate such an occasion is hot boys kissing XD
> 
> As I've already warned some of you, Top!Lock is sort of a ridiculous concept to me - I like a blushy, squirming (and sometimes sassy) cute lil virgin Bottom!Lock. And - double bonus! Red Pants Monday! 
> 
> C'mon. You know you want it ;)

"Let  me see."

Sherlock's breathing is ragged as he avidly watches John adjust himself. (That can't be real. Jesus Christ. Though god only knows what John could possibly stuff his pants with to create something so large - maybe a bloody cobra.) After a moment's hesitation - apparently checking Sherlock's reaction - John unbuckles his belt, pops the button, pulls the zip down, and lifts up his shirt. 

"Oh," Sherlock whispers, and bites back a moan as John's cock, which has to curve sharply to the left in order to remain concealed beneath his red pants, twitches eagerly at the sound of his voice. Oh god, it is real! It's real and now it's all his. "It's...it's honeycomb."

"Honeycomb?" John asks, perplexed, staring thoughtfully down his pectorals. "It thought it was some strange lace pattern."

"No, it's honeycomb. Bees. I like bees," Sherlock states, with a shy, little-boy smile that makes John's love feel like it's growing impossibly larger in his chest.

The crest exists in the oh-so-tantalizing space just above his pubic bone and just below his navel. Sherlock wants to memorize everything about this particular piece of skin, until he would know it deaf, dumb, and blind. Lightly, he reaches up to brush his fingers against it, and John moans unsteadily. "King," he whispers. "God, my King. You're so beautiful." 

"John," Sherlock says shakily. "John, I think I need you to touch me now."

"Oh, god, _yes."_

He leads him onto the sofa - not the bedroom, not yet. Sherlock's not ready for it, even if he thinks he is. John can tell from the way he kisses that he has little or no experience. But jeezus, he's just got to get his hands on that gorgeous body. "We'll go slow, okay?" he whispers against his mouth, slipping his hands down narrow hips.

They sit pressed together on the sofa and he keeps the pace lazy, but they can't seem to stop from getting more and more heated. John finds his mate maddeningly sexy. Every time they part for breath, Sherlock makes a low sound as though even that small separation is unbearable. His large hands clutch at John greedily, tangling in his t-shirt with uncharacteristic clumsiness and he keeps shifting on the leather, trying to find friction. Unable to keep his hands away any longer,  John slips one of the hands on his hips to the front of his trousers, cupping and rubbing at Sherlock's painfully hard cock trapped there. 

"John!" He gasps hoarsely, bucking into the touch. Sherlock's mouth falls open, stretches to that very suggestive, erotic heart-shape. When John begins to kiss his neck, he mewls "I - I can't - unh!"

John's thumb teases along the seam, rubbing his cock through the fine fabric. His tongue darts out to lick that long creamy white throat. Sherlock sobs and John feels his cock pulse against his hand, the material growing wet. John keeps rubbing him through the orgasm, nipping at his collar, absolutely intoxicated by him.

When his breathing finally steadies, Sherlock pulls away. He can feel the shame rising as a blush in his cheeks. He is so humiliated he wants to cry, but he settles with turning his face away. 

His first time with John, and he couldn't even last a full minute. 

God, what must his mate think of him, releasing in his trousers after thirty seconds of simple petting? 

"Bloody fantastic," hisses John, without sarcasm, still fervently kissing his neck. His palm now surreptitiously kneads the crotch of his red pants. "God, you're so sensitive - and those fucking noises you make, Sherlock! I thought for a second I was going to come, too, just from that hot little whine you make."

He slides a warm, rough hand beneath his silk shirt and pinches a nipple lightly, forcing one of those very sounds from Sherlock's mouth.

"I didn't -ah!- mean to," Sherlock pants against John's lips. John is still stroking himself through the fabric. Sherlock can smells his arousal, can hear his breath grow quicker and harsher. His mouth floods with saliva from his own eager desire and he blushes at the words he blurts out "I want to - can I use my mouth? On you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guilty admission: spent half the chapter listening to "Pony" by Ginuwine. May I burn in hell.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I've created the cupcake for Johnlock shippers - a thick, moist cake of porn, covered in chocolate angst frosting, with tiny sprinkles of actual plot.
> 
> This came a bit sooner than I expected it to, but I did tell you I had a plan - the chapters seem to be writing themselves now.

"I want to-" Sherlock stutters, blushing "Can I use my mouth? On you?"

John gives a shaky, barely credible laugh and lets his jeans pool to his ankles, then tosses them onto his plaid armchair with a jangle of keys and coins. "For future reference, you never have to ask me that. Anything that involves your pretty mouth is a guaranteed yes."

Even the sight of Sherlock sliding gracefully to his knees is enough to speed up the tempo of his heart. He expects Sherlock - his whirlwind, impetuous detective - to yank the front of his pants beneath his balls and get straight to it.

This is the part where John begins to realize that Sherlock with the world is a different animal than Sherlock with John, because that is absolutely not what he does.

Winding his long, pale arms around John's waist, Sherlock leans forward and nuzzles the sharp curve of his cheek into John's cock, breathing in the scent of male sweat and musk and a clean, warm body beneath him. John mutters out something that sounds vaguely vulgar, but his ability to speak has been seriously compromised, so it's not entirely clear. 

"You...smell...amazing," Sherlock breaths against the twitching of his prick, which comes alive at the captivating rumble of his voice. 

"Oh god," John chokes.

Heavenly, plush lips mouth at his bollocks through the fabric of his pants, light damp touches that do nothing but drive John wilder and wilder with incomplete pleasure, torturing him with the idea of what's to come. Those lips tease his aching testicles with small gentle sucks, before Sherlock moves up to his shaft.

He wants it all, he can smell and taste John through the red pants, and he opens his mouth wide across its girth, feels the hot flesh beating and pulsing inside his mouth, and moans.

In a haze of desire, wondering if the hormones racing through his blood may actually kill him, John looks down at Sherlock at the sound of his voice. His mouth is wrapped around the thick circumference of John's cock and his eyelids flutter wildly over super-dilated pupils. He can't resist burying a hand in the thick curls, massages Sherlock's scalp with his fingers. Another loud moan vibrates along his cock, followed by a growing wetness, and the tiniest edge of teeth.

Sherlock is literally drooling with lust.

"Oh god, you're killing me," gasps John, slamming his head into the wall to keep his focus.

Sherlock, mouth swollen with kisses, lifts his head and the tint of anxiety colors his pale features. "Should I be going faster? I'm not doing it right, am I?" His face crumples a little, before becoming a smooth mask. "There was no need to pretend if it didn't feel good."

"Good god," John says, with a slightly crazed giggle. "Sherlock, even if you get up right now and leave, this will still be the best fucking blow job I've ever gotten in my life. I'm so bloody turned on right now I'm worried just letting you look at my dick will make me come."

Sherlock slides his fingertips beneath the waistband and pulls the red pants out of the way. Though John's cock was outlined clearly in the fabric, the sight of him naked and bare still makes his breath catch. Tentatively, his hungry mouth closes over the leaking head, tongue lapping slowly at the pre-come running from the slit. "Oh Christ," John whines, closing his eyes. "Christ, Sherlock, I can't watch you do that. Your mouth - your beautiful mouth-!"

What follows is the longest, slowest, most delicious torture of his life. He always enjoyed a partner who took their time and Sherlock seemed content to do this for hours. Unfortunately, John's self-control wouldn't last that long. Kitten licks up the thick shaft, slow, loving open-mouthed kisses to each of his bollocks, and a tongue darting in and around the slit were endured with whimpering moans and sobs. It was a total loss when Sherlock finally slides his long, clever fingers through dark gold pubic hair and strokes the crest absently, petting honeycomb marks with his heart-shaped mouth wrapped around his prick.

John, with a hand still massaging his scalp, tries gently to pull him off, but Sherlock makes an unhappy sound. "Sher-uh!"

He watches his pale eyes go wide with surprise as John spills himself into is mouth, not quite swallowing quickly enough. A small trickle of fluid runs down his chin as Sherlock disengages, bright-eyed and panting enthusiastically. 

"Come here, gorgeous man," John whispers. 

He surges back up to the sofa, kisses sloppy and - if John is not mistaken - turned on. "John, John, John." He whispers as his soulmate laps the come from his lips. 

"Bath," John growls. "I need you out of these clothes." He begins kissing his neck, his collar. "I need you, I need you. Clean you up, then take you to bed."


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock is dazed as John leads him by the hand into the bathroom, turning the facets in the shower on. His head is spinning full of John.  _My mate, my King. MY John._

He can hardly believe this is real, but the discomfort of dried semen inside his trousers and sting of the hot water as they both step into the bath helps to keep him grounded to reality. Every time he turns and looks in those deep indigo eyes, he feels like he's falling all over again. He's achingly hard again - of course he is,  _John twisting his curls around his fingers, groaning his name as his prick throbs against his tongue_ \- and despite releasing five minutes ago, John doesn't seem any less keen to touch and kiss him. 

John steps into the shower behind him, wraps soapy fingers around his hips, slides them seductively into the base of dark pubic hair. "Oh, god, John," Sherlock gasps. "I can't-" 

"Shhh," he whispers into his shoulder, kissing tenderly at the wet flesh. "Put your arms up against the tile and lean back for me, beauty." 

With limbs shaking, Sherlock obeys. John savors each long muscle, rubbing the tight flesh from neck to thigh, the sight of the soap rinsing from the gorgeously sleek lines of him almost hypnotic. Finally, when Sherlock is steady again, John once again slips his sudsy fingers down to the base of the long, pretty cock resting rigid and twitching in the dark curls between Sherlock's thighs. One long, slow stroke and Sherlock groans at the slick roughness of callouses and scars against his sensitive flesh. "King - my John," he chokes, unable to stop himself from thrusting eagerly into John's clever, intuitive hands. He jerks when one of them begins deftly, slowly rolling his balls. "Oh, Jo-John, please!" 

Sherlock cries weakly when John's hands slips away, the sound of soap slicking up hands again before John draws him from the wall to turn him around and press him against the tiles once more, this time the cool ceramic pressed against his feverish back. "I've got to kiss you," John husks against his parted lips. "I can't - I could never neglect your pretty mouth, not when you moan for me that way."

He surges down eagerly to be devoured, whining when his lover's hands cup his round buttocks possessively as their hungry mouths meet. He licks his way into his soldier's mouth, arching into the warm rough palms, making John growl. "You like being touched here?" he murmurs, squeezing and kneading.

Sherlock's knees are shaking as he rocks his hips frantically, forward to rub his leaking erection into John's beautifully soft belly, and backward to push his arse into John's groping hands. His mouth is open and gasping, unable to form anything as specific as words. 

John moans, sliding a soap slicked finger down Sherlock's spine, past the enticing dip of the dimples above his perfect buttocks into the hot cleft. Sherlock groans loudly at the first light touch of a finger to his tightly furled hole, eagerly spreading himself wider. John echoes the sound, rubbing gently in his desire to release his beautiful mate's desperate need. "Feedback loop," he gasps. "You lust, and I lust. I lust, and you lust."

"I do," Sherlock agrees raggedly, pressing his forehead into John's shoulder. "Oh, god, I need you."

John licks the tempting curve of his long neck, pressing in with a forefinger. His right hand grips his lovely King's left cheek, probably leaving bruises in the tender white flesh. Sherlock's body melts into his as he catches an earlobe between his teeth and slips the digit inside, teasing the rigid muscle. A symphony of moans fan over across John's neck, making every muscle tense and every hair stand on end. Sherlock is clutching the wrist gripping his arse, feeling that he will truly die if John stops touching him now, hoarsely whispering " _Yes, yes, oh, yes."_

"Gonna get you clean for me," John whispers back, still working his sud-covered fingers in that sweet cleft. This a fantasy that's haunted him since almost the day they met and he's not missing his chance to get...just a little taste. He knows there's a chance Sherlock won't actually like the experience, but he's going to make sure it's as enjoyable as possible - he wants to lick this heavenly arse every damn day, and he won't risk the chance that Sherlock may find any part of it distasteful. "Get you nice and clean and then, Sherlock, I want to kiss you  _Right. Here."_

Guttural moans leave Sherlock's lips as John's warm, suntanned grip both cheeks and spread him lewdly apart, his forefingers catching him just inside the rim and stretching him, promising something much more erotic than fingers. Then John's words actually reach into the haze of his needy mind, freezing him in place. "But - John, that's isn't - I...you don't have to."

John's lips, firm and hungry, skip across his neck and collar, until the shorter man is face to face with the red lion on his shoulder. John's lion. Teeth gently make a small impression there. "I want to, Sherlock." His voice is husky and his eyes indigo-blue with a dark hunger in them. He leans into Sherlock's neck and presses his mouth to the flawless skin, laves at the sweet, clean salt taste there with long thirsty licks, and then gives a tiny suckle that turns the skin a delicate pink. "I want to kiss you just like that," he murmurs, licking his lips and gently circling the quivering rim of Sherlock's hole. "I've dreamed of tasting you, hearing the sounds you make while I lick you. I've spent months wanting to worship every inch of you, starting with your pretty, pretty arse."

Sherlock's pale eyes are wide and glazed, full lips parted seductively - it's not intentional, and John knows that. But he finds it that much more arousing. Sherlock triggers every pleasure-sensor in his brain without even the intending to. He steps out of the bath and grabs the towels. "Okay."

John follows him out, nearly as stunned as his younger mate. "Okay?"

"Okay."

Sherlock is nervous as climbs onto the bed. This...thing...John has proposed sounded...incredibly stimulating when he described it, but every time he actually began thinking about the act, his mind shied away from the idea, wondering how that could possibly be pleasant - for either party. 

"Kneel down," John whispers, tenderly caressing his shoulders and spine.

Shivering somewhere between apprehension and anticipation, Sherlock plants his knees on the mattress and rests his cheek on the sheets of his bed, feeling exposed and terrifyingly vulnerable this way. It's more intimate, physically and emotionally, than he's ever been in his life. He buries his red face in Egyptian cotton and squeezes his eyes shut.

John's hands are strong. Warm. Steady on his narrow hips, rubbing his thumbs in soft circles. "Lovely," he whispers, kissing those sweet sexy little dimples with every bit of the love and desire trying to cut through him. "God, you're even more beautiful than I imagined - just so, so lovely, Sherlock." 

Even Sherlock's ears were blushing. 

The soft, gentle kisses continued down the knobs of his spine. Sherlock is clutching the sheets with shaking hands, and by the time John's hands cup his buttocks and bares his most delicate center, he's nearly afraid he will pass out.

"Oh," John whispers, hot humid breath caressing the soft pink hole. Sherlock whimpers, hands twisting the covers. John's mouth waters, and he can't take another second. He presses his mouth to his blood-hot core, and gently laves tight ring of muscle, moaning at the first touch of such silky-soft, virgin skin. John's head spins with lust, the sensation making him think of lush, juicy plums and soft peaches - deliciously smooth, sweet, and so ripe and ready to be taken. He moans again, softly sucking the rim with his mouth.

The touch of his tongue and John's hungry, pleased sounds travels up Sherlock's spine and goes straight to his cock, tightening his balls and forcing a cry from his mouth. " _Oh, god!_ " 

John's thumb teases his lovely little hole as he lifts his head, a pleased grin on his face. "You like that, love?"

"Don't stop, oh god please John, don't stop," Sherlock sobs, thighs quivering with need, arching his back and spreading his knees farther apart to present a more enticing target. Unfortunately - or fortunately - John couldn't possibly be more eager to attend to his task than he already is. 

John kisses, licks, nibbles, and sucks, only teasing the outside, relishing the sounds of Sherlock trying to hold himself together - failing, flat-out failing. At the first thrust of John's tongue inside his pliant, wet hole, Sherlock wails and a long string of pre-come slips from his flushed, purple cock. 

John happily as he feels the tight walls clenching around his tongue and plunging into the desperately twitching hole with his tongue, stroking his own cock in the same tempo he's fucking Sherlock with. Sherlock begins panting, clawing at the covers and frantically fucking himself backward into John's tongue. He stares straight forward, not seeing a single inch of the wall in front of him, totally focused on the pleasure he's receiving from the talented mouth of an ex-army doctor. His groin feels heavy and hot, almost liquid-like with the intensity of the orgasm building inside. His neglected cock leaks a small lake of pre-come into the bedsheets.

The sounds begin getting to John - Sherlock is murmuring under his breath, moaning " _Yes, yes, don't stop, Jawn, please. Please, please, don't stop. Jawn! There-there-there! Oh, yes. Jawwwn."_

John growls, feeling his testicles tightened fiercely with impending climax as he tightens his fist around his prick, then realizes that he can't hear anything anymore.

Sherlock kneels on the bed with his arse in the air, rigid and open-mouthed, his body seizing, unable to draw another breath to cry out.

Then John hears a cracked, barely recognizable whisper from farther up the bed. "Coming-coming-!"

Eyes wide, John suckles the quivering hole and watches the growing wet spot cover the blankets. With a wrecked curse, he jerks up to kneel behind Sherlock, grabs those plump, luscious cheeks and frots against him like a wild animal, saliva and pre-come making his way smooth and slick, hissing each time the head of his dick nudges against Sherlock's entrance. 

Sherlock howls as the cockhead brushes his rim, unable to stop trembling as the waves crash over him. "PutitinputitinJohn!"

John groans, hanging his head. "Fuck, fuck - I didn't prepare you. Just the tip, just a bit." 

The stretch burns but it is so, so sweet. John snarls at the mind-numbing of feeling the incredible heat, the virgin tightness, leaving finger-shaped marks in his pale hips as his cock begins to pulse and spill inside. "You are So. Fucking. Tight," he hisses, giving tiny thrusts at each word.

Sherlock trembles from head to foot, his moans reaching subsonic levels at the feel of John's prick coating his inner walls in hot seed, collapsing to his chest as he begins coming again, and rocking himself back slightly on the thickness pressing inside, shaking uncontrollably, whimpering "John, John"

When the fog begins to roll away, Sherlock stares at the blankets in front of him, ( _I drooled all over the sheets)_  murmurs. "Was it okay?"

"No, it wasn't. It was bloody incredible. 'Put it in'," John repeats, astonished, shaking his head as he strokes the damp, dark curls above him. "Christ, Sherlock, you're going to kill me." He kisses a pale shoulder. "You were amazing. The hottest thing I've ever seen. You came - twice! - without laying a finger on your cock. And begging me to put my cock inside, then coming again, this time all around my prick! Jesus, Sherlock!"

"It felt so good," Sherlock whispers sleepily, eyes falling shut. "J-"

John smiled fondly down at his sleeping soulmate, drowsy overcoming him as well, giving a kiss to the top of a dark head just before he, too, fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to cast your vote in my poll for my next story! The deadline for voting is July 31st!
> 
> I promise, there will be some semblance of a plot coming up, I just have SOOOOO much porn thought up for this story. Not that any of you guys are complaining, right?


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About that plot I promised soon? I lied. I'm sorry (that is also a lie). Have more porn. I'm sorry I'm ridiculously late with this update - but you'll be excited to know that, by an overwhelming majority, the polls say that the Bones!Lock crossover wins. When "His King" is finished, "Unlocking A Heart" will be my next large project. 
> 
> Didn't vote for the Bones!Lock crossover? Well, don't sweat it - just because it wasn't voted to be next definitely doesn't mean it won't be coming up eventually :)
> 
> I'm just going to suck it up and publish this.

Sherlock and John got out of bed the next day. Shortly after sunrise, John got up to fetch supplies to clean them up, made tea, and brought all of his treasures back to his lovely match, who was sleeping peacefully in their bed. “Morning, beautiful,” he murmurs, gently turning Sherlock unto his back and wiping the dried come from his chest and thighs.

Sherlock makes a low sleepy sound and nuzzles at John's side. Smiling, John kisses the soft curve of an ear emerging from the dark curls. “You're so lovely, Glory,” he whispers, nipping the edge of the pink shell. “First thing I see in the morning is your sweet face.”

Long limbs stretch and curl around him, enfolding him in willowy arms and legs. Sherlock shivers around him, nuzzling into the warmth of his neck. “I thought it was a dream,” he murmurs sleepily, dazed as John's hands caress the length of his back, the slope of each arched shoulder blade. “Didn't want to wake up.”

“No, Sherlock. I'm here.”

They kiss languidly on the bed, flickers of daylight peaking through the curtains and flashing gold and shadows across the drapes. It gilds John's hair in soft shimmering gold and paints the rounded muscles of his back and shoulders in honeyed tones, the bullet wound a great white eye in the flesh. The slender sensitive pads of Sherlock's fingers stroke the firm ropes of muscles in John's forearms. “You're beautiful,” he whispers, staring up into his dark blue eyes.

John chuckles in denial, his cheeks a bit red. “No. I leave that to you, darling.”

But Sherlock shakes his head quite insistently. “You – my warrior King. My soldier. My protector. You're magnificent.” He drew in a sharp breath, gaze a bit glassy. “Oh. That's why you attacked him, isn't? I thought you were angry because he actually dared to come into the flat, but you killed Moriarty because he hurt me.”

John felt the large hands on his back tighten and curl, holding him closer. Tenderly, he strokes the sharp line of one cheekbone and watches Sherlock's eyes flutter shut and butt his face into John's hand like a purring cat. “He punished you for being mine.”

Sherlock's slanting eyes look much darker than they normally are. “Touched what never belonged to him.” His voice is rough. “John, please-”

“Yes.”

Sherlock's unfinished plea was answered by John dragging a hand through his hair and taking his mouth a long deep snog. “We need to talk about this,” he panted, unable to stop his mouth from being dragged back to his soulmate's skin over and over. “Feeling – what I – feel.”

“Uh,” Sherlock moans senselessly, blindly throwing his head back and baring his throat eagerly for John's hungry mouth.

With a frustrated grunt, John pulls away slightly, panting against Sherlock's skin, so close he can still almost taste that sweet salt on his tongue. “We can't do what we did last night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock freezes. “But-you liked it...you...Wasn't it good? I thought it was good...”

“It was,” John says carefully, pausing the stream of insecure babbling from his mate. “For me. We were lucky, this time, but I could have torn you, love. I know for a fact that you're hellishly sore. You enjoyed it at the time because you were siphoning the sensation of pleasure off of me, Sherlock. If we were two ordinary men, you'd have been screaming in agony. We aren't doing that ever again unless I'm absolutely sure you're properly prepared for it. You aren't bleeding, but only just.”

“That's how I knew what you were thinking about Moriarty?” His eyes narrow. “That's why my face healed so quickly. There was bruising and swelling – I remember you touching my face just before I fell asleep, and the next morning there was only the smallest shadow of a bruise.” Sherlock sucks in a breath, lips forming that oh so inviting heart-shape John loved so much. "Touch me, John."

"I am touching you, Sherlock."

He scowls. "Don't be thick, John. Touch my...my..."

John smiles softly at the intense blush and the stutter Sherlock couldn't cover. His breath is hot in his flushing mate's ear. "Your pretty, twitching little hole, Sherlock? Is that where you want me to touch you?"

Sherlock's breath leaves in a long, low desperate noise. He curls his face into John's neck and whispers  _"Please."_

A shudder passes through the doctor and his calloused hands stroke and soothe on the path down his spine, soft and warm. When the hot palm cups the soft creamy swell of his right buttock, Sherlock breathes pleas into John's neck. "Yes, there, please."

John touches slowly, softly, and concentrates. Thinks about soothing the delicate tissues. Healed, unbroken, a lovely rosy pink. Sherlock moans in his ear "That's good. It's -it's working."

John pets and rubs and heals, until a pair of large hands clutch at his arse cheeks as Sherlock rocks against him, desperate to get closer. He growls in response to the moans of his mate, growing steadily louder and more unabashed as Sherlock forgets his embarrassment at the noises he is making and stretches that beautiful neck back, lips parted. 

"That's it, so good for me, so good," he murmurs into the soft white skin, grinding back against him, still idly playing with his entrance. "So perfect, Sherlock. My great beauty. Glorious, glorious. You're mine, only mine"

Sherlock cries out as he comes, fingers digging into John's lower back, his semen coating their bellies. 

Bewitched, John rolls him onto his back and slides his cock through the sickness between them, staring hungrily at Sherlock's fluttering eyelids and kissing greedily into his soft, slack mouth. 

Dazed, Sherlock regains enough control to slip his hand around the heat of his soulmate's cock and press it to the soft skin of flat stomach. "I'm yours. Only yours."

John groans, pulses against his hand, lips slipping away from his mouth and down to his shoulder, kissing tenderly. Boneless from the orgasm, he stays there, lips pressing gentle affection until he can finally say. "We should call your brothers. Our brothers, I suppose."

"Please never mention Mycroft even obliquely when we're having sex. And why?"

"Coronation?"

"Oh! John, you are brilliant."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy jesus life is bananas. Anyway, quick trigger warning for blood, injury of a child, violence against an animal, and loss of a pet. Wrote this listening to "Come With Me Now" by The Kongos

_It can't be that bad,_ Sherlock tells himself anxiously.  _It's just John and John will love you no matter what happens. He's a part of you now._

Somehow this reassurance didn't help the nerves jangling around his stomach. 

John was really more excited for what was going to happen after the Coronation ceremony was over to be honest. Oh, of course he was excited to know and see more about his mate, but really, this was the formal confirmation of a bond that had been built over of the course of more than a year. A part of him did wonder if he and Sherlock were going to become just as eerie as Mycroft and Greg because they were just ... wow.

A quiet laugh next to him makes John realize he'd actually said that aloud with Greg sitting in the seat beside him. "Probably worse."

John's nose crinkles. "The two of you do that weird thing with your voices and your eyes and it's just ... really very creepy."

Even as Greg's eyes flicker, he laughs at him, saying "Really? Have your eyes always had a bit of green in them, John? At least we're aware of it happening. The two of you are so caught up in each other's heads I bet you wouldn't even hear yourself merging voices."

"You're just jealous that our bond is so strong," John says with a grin. Greg grins back, shaking his head "I wouldn't want to be that far in anyone's head, never mind Sherlock's." He and Mycroft had already discussed this with each other, Greg left to wonder if John and Sherlock's instantaneous connection made their bond stronger. Mycroft had said "In all the world you are the one who understands me best, and the reverse is also true. But if we had never discovered each other, we would still survive. We might never be happy, truly happy, but in our ignorance we would at least be content, never knowing more could exist for us. John and Sherlock can't say the same for themselves. They could never be content, never mind happy without each other. It's not that they have a stranger connection - they simply can't survive alone."

But of course, Greg won't be telling John that.

Both men turn to look as the door to the viewing room opens, admitting both Holmes brothers. Mycroft was sleek, well-groomed, and as inscrutable as ever. Sherlock however, was pale and twitchy, and as he sits down in the seat next to him, John takes his hand and gave a gentle squeeze. "It's gonna be okay," he murmurs. ''I'm yours no matter what happens.''

"Just...hurry and get this over with." Sherlock replies, sliding his large palm against John's abdomen.  _"Corona Gloriae."_

The room shivers, almost with a sympathetic tension. A nearly blinding light fills the space, the atmosphere white with the fall of snow. The air even grew colder around them. And Mycroft feels his heart sink. He wished he could have been with Sherlock earlier on this day, but this had happened before he'd returned home for the Christmas holiday. Bright against the snow, a red setter dog lays among the frost, panting as blood stained the white drifts around him. A small boy strokes his head, his hands turning to crimson as he alternately tried to pet the wet fur and free the whining dog from the massive bear trap, partially hidden among the snow and fallen pine needles. Big fat teardrops slipped down Sherlock's face as Redbeard struggled and whimpered inside the great teeth. "It's okay, boy, it's gonna be all right. l'll get you out of here."

He struggles with the clamp on the trap, trying to use a birch stick to lever the jaws open. A shrill cry rips through the hush of snow and frost as Sherlock slips, the branch punching through the folds of his coat and his shirt and vest, straight into the child's lower belly. John has to swallow a cry of grief as golden light ripples around the wound, the chime singling its importance drowned out by the child Sherlock's scream. Sobbing, Sherlock pulls away, his clothes now stained with both the dog's blood and his own. Redbeard was frantic at the sounds of his little master's distress, struggling harder to free himself, licking at Sherlock's bloodied hands and belly and whining pathetically. "I can't-I can't get you out, Redbeard," Sherlock sobs, curling his hands into the rich fur. "I'm not strong enough, not smart enough. But I won't just leave you..."

John swallows around the tightness in his throat as Sherlock beside him turns and buries his face in John's shoulder, his jumper growing damp. The scene blurs, still with that blinding-white quality, but the landscape is slightly different, more open fields and fencing than trees. 

A young Mycroft, bundled up in scarf and hat, face red from the wind, yells for his brother until he's hoarse. "Sherlock! Sherlock! If you can hear me, answer me, god damn it! Sherlock! Just answer, me! SHERLOCK! COME HOME, SHERLOCK!!"

In the distance, a weak cry, thick with tears " _Help! Mycroft, help!"_

Rather impressively, Mycroft leaps over a fence and plows through the knee-high snow to reach that small voice. "Sherlock!" Eyes wide as he takes in his baby brother, who is blue in the lips and shaking, tears running in a continuous stream down his face as he huddles next to the bear trap, blood down his front and leaking into the snow. Redbeard lays inside the trap, too weak from pain and blood loss to keep struggling anymore. "Sherlock, my god - you're bleeding! Your stomach!" 

Sherlock was doing the kind of crying that means he's hyperventilating as he speaks - tears coming too fast and hard for him to talk past the frantic gulping of air. "He's st-st-st-stuck and I-I-I can't g-get him o-o-out!"

Gently shifting Sherlock away from the sinister jaws of the bear trap, Mycroft examines the dog laying helpless in its teeth.

Redbeard whines again as big master takes little master away and reaches toward him. "Easy, pup," Mycroft hushes softly, reaching for the clamp and throwing his not inconsiderable weight into it. With a rusty shriek, the trap opens and locks back into the down position. "All right, Redbeard. I'll come back with the vet."

Sherlock is horrified. "What do you mean? We're not just leaving him!"

"You're bleeding, Sherlock, you've lost quite a bit of blood, and the dog can't walk on his own, either," his brother points out wearily. "Let's get you home and I'll call for the vet and come back with him." 

"No!" Sherlock shouts, anguished, tears still slipping down his pale flushed face. "He'll think I've just left him there to die!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighs, but slowly bends to shift the setter dog into his arms. He stays kneeling and says "Hurry up and climb on - you'll have to hang on tight, because I won't be able to hold you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is short and the ending is so abrupt - this has just been sitting in my drafts for so long that I forced myself suck it up and post it (finally). And...it's an angst fest. Oops.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow that was a long hiatus. I've had some trouble getting inspired but I think season 4 will bring it back for me. I want this finished by then, so I can focus on fresh ideas. I also plan on mass editing this once it's completely finished. It's sloppy and I'm sorry about that. In my defense, I wrote half of this entire story via text message keyboard and don't have a beta or brit-picker. Anyway, drama...

“Your dog-?” John asks softly, as the lights blur rather than brightening as they should. “Redbeard didn't make it, did he?”

“He needed an amputation,” Sherlock says woodenly. “My mother had him put to sleep.”

The room is soft and dim, sleepy, and Mycroft's brows raise. He knew that Sherlock and John's relationship was strong – he did not expect it to be strong enough to force out two memories from the seal rather than one. He...wasn't even sure that had ever happened before, actually. The Witness viewing rooms had only been in existence since 1895 and Mycroft never paid much attention to statistics of the historical connections between Kings and Queens before.

Sherlock is slightly older in this vision – maybe eight years old? And stares into the mirror, wide-eyed, at his bare shoulder. The mark is deep red and slightly shiny, a pool of fresh blood, a lurid stain on ivory skin. He presses his hands to glass and whispers urgently "My, it's here! Come look, My!"

Mycroft Holmes is fifteen years old – tall, pale, and a bit pudgy round the middle. Already his stare is cool, nearly robotic with it's measured blue stare, assessing and studying one's worth. And he is very tender with his baby brother, placing a hand on his shoulder and peering into the mirror with him.

A fiery lion rampant, all claws and jaws, this symbol was supposed to describe the soul of the person matched with Sherlock's. The ancient symbol of both great kings and ferocious warriors.

"Corona Gloriae," Mycroft says gravely, squeezing his opposite shoulder. "Crowned With Glory. That's quite impressive, little brother."

"It's beautiful," Sherlock says solemnly, and John's heart clenches at the reverence he hears in that small, young voice. "It's perfect. I'm going to find them, My. I know I will."

Mycroft sighs and runs a gentle hand through his brother's dark curls, over the soft, rounded line of his adolescent jaw. All four of the men watching can see the pained grimace that crosses the older boy's face as stares obsessively at his own reflection in the glass. He clearly does not think this is likely, but seems reluctant to actually say so. 

Sherlock is still speaking, "My Crowned will be magnificent."

"What makes you think that?" Mycroft asks, amused now that Sherlock clearly did not catch a glimpse of his pained doubt.

Though the mark's meaning will also come to refer to himself, Sherlock speaks without any awareness of conceit. "Anyone can be kind or clever or patient," he tells his brother, rather rudely. "But it must take someone truly extraordinary to be glorious." 

"I can't disagree," Mycroft says softly, peering down into that small, earnest, beloved face. It is clear to the other men that Mycroft is not speaking about the person the lion describes – but knows that somewhere, someone will have a crest tattooed on their body, proclaiming that their mate will be wreathed in glory, and that it will refer to this little boy. The most treasured thing he has. 

Sherlock tugs early on his older brother's sleeve, pulling at his buttoned cuffs. “I want to see it, My,” he begs, “Show me again, I want to see!”

Mycroft's huff is part exasperation and a slightly uncomfortable laugh, society's ingrained opinions about the nature of displaying one's mark making him just that bit uneasy about showing him. He still pulls the button on his cuff and lifts the sleeve up, the silver fur of the wolf seems icy-cold in the light of the moonlit room. 

Sherlock's smaller fingers brush lightly over the picture, either unknowing or uncaring about the inappropriateness of the gesture – Mycroft has never dissuaded him and won't start now. “Crowned With Victory,” he whispers, and smiles up at the teenager. “You'll find yours, too.”

Greg smiles at the sweet innocence in this one statement, even as Mycroft brushes it aside. “We'll see,” replies, disinterested, with another slight grimace as Sherlock turns away. Mycroft does not have a fraction of his little brother's faith. He leaves his sleeve unbuttoned as he ushers Sherlock away from the mirror. “Come now – it's time to go to sleep. You'll have plenty of time to examine it in the morning.”

John's fingers press lightly to his shoulder “Corona Gloriae.”

The room grows brighter – almost unbearable, really – and the air shimmers with heat. John tenses and Sherlock nuzzles his shoulder wordlessly. John presses his face to the dark curls, trying to keep his breathing calm, and taking in the soothing smell of his scent. He can't watch.

They both know what's going to happen here.

Captain John Watson sweats beneath an Afghan sun, crouching in the ruins of a building with his team as they try to catch their breath. “Patel,” he barks “Where's Vance and Underwood?”

Lieutenant Patel grunts. “Dead and shot, respectively,” he grunts, dark peering out from beneath his helmet. “Vance was standing by the jeep when they hit the gas tank. Underwood was still trying to help the kid get up and walk.” 

“Anybody hurt?” he called over the huddled men.

Private Fletcher, red-haired and freckle-faced, and nearly always grinning, called back “Thompson's delicate ankle was twisted hopping around out on the sand.”

“Fuck you, Fox-face!” Thompson barked.

“I'm going back in to check on Underwood. Fletcher, Brown, and Li Fang provide cover. Patel and Sanders, help Thompson and go back for reinforcements. Wait until they're distracted when I break cover to leave.” 

“Fuck, Captain's going to get a medal for this,” Fletcher breathed, bringing up his rifle and watching their leader duck and race around brush and rubble to reach Underwood and the little boy with the broken leg he was protecting.

“Too bad he'll not be alive to receive it,” Lieutenant Patel answered grimly, slinging Thompson's arm over his shoulders. 

John was breathing quick, darting between the remains of buildings and trying to scan both the cliffs ahead for the tell-tale shimmer of metal and the sandy soil for the uniform of Corporal Underwood. Dust and particles of rock rain down on him from the enemy fire. Behind him is the sound of Fletcher, Brown, and Li Fang returning fire.

The little boy Underwood was helping is still huddled nearby, shaking and too frightened to move from the shade of a stone well. The child is squeezing Underwood's hand, whining in pain from his leg, blood seeping through his bandages. Holding the hand of Corporal Underwood's corpse, John realizes sadly as he gets closer. 

Underwood is a loss, but the child is still a concern. He can't even attempt to run and he's stuck hiding by a well clutching a corpse. John breaths deep, already knowing that the odds of accomplishing this without being shot are almost zero.

But...he can't just leave a child stranded by a dead body in the middle of a war zone.

He darts forward, sand puffing out around him as bullets snap through the earth, holding a hand out to the little boy. “Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers, hunching by the well wall and gently prying the small finger's away from Underwood's hand. The boy's eyes are blank, face smeared with dirt and blood, lost in the horror of what he'd seen. 

John gently touches his shoulder, squeezes his other hand. He murmurs what is nonsense to the Afghani child, but says them in soothing tones. “How about we get out of here, okay, love?” Carefully, he moves the boy without any protest, scooping him up with one arm around the child's shoulders and another beneath his knees. “Alright, let's go.”

The run back is terrifying, and seems to take hours, but for a full thirty seconds, John believes that he's made it. 

A roar of pain leaves him as the bullet blazes through his left shoulder, staggering him, and the chimes echoes across the desert as the room's purpose is satisfied. 

He hears Li Fang cry “Captain!”

The child is no longer frozen, but cries frantically now that he realizes his second rescuer has also been shot and is now bleeding all over him. John nearly drops him, his whole left arm suddenly becoming useless. He staggers and stumbles, half blind with the excruciating pain lancing through what feels like his entire left side, still clutching the sobbing child with his right arm. 

Fletcher breaks from cover to rush out, but John gasps “Take him!” and stays standing long enough to shove the boy into his arms before collapsing to his knees in the dirt, gasping in pain, and digging into fingers into the sand, convulsively grasping at anything around him.

NO, NO, NO. I DON'T WANT TO LEAVE YET. I-I CAN'T LEAVE YOU...

John sways in the sand, presses his hand below his navel, bent over and heaving in the desert sun. His last moments, so he believed.

I WANT TO COME HOME TO YOU. I WANT TO LIVE. PLEASE, GOD, LET ME LIVE...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really excited for season 4 this winter, how about you guys? I have a great feeling about it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for getoffmysheets' "His King"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4000861) by [fiorinda_chancellor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiorinda_chancellor/pseuds/fiorinda_chancellor)




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